#Sleepless (oc story) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 6 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus ii)

a/n: I'm back on this bonus feature, a special episode of the Stark-fluff, I'm giving you deleted scenes! Yay! So these did not make the cut for the chapters I wrote, they were either repetitive or just meh, but I did work on them so I thought you'd all love a glimpse :)

SCENE #1 (part i) - I DON'T TRUST YOU

Winterfell had grown colder since her arrival.

It wasn’t just the weather. The halls felt different—quieter, more shadowed, the cold biting sharper than it had in years past. Since the day Claere had stepped across Winterfell’s threshold as his bride, whispers followed her, as persistent as the wind that howled through the keep.

Cregan Stark sat at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, a ledger spread open before him. The flicker of torchlight danced across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His supper, a hearty stew that had long gone cold, sat untouched beside him. But it wasn’t hunger gnawing at him tonight.

His thoughts were tangled, circling back to the same place: Claere.

She unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain, though he prided himself on reason and instinct. She moved through Winterfell as though she were of another world—her silvery hair catching the light in a way that seemed otherworldly, her violet eyes drifting to things no one else seemed to notice. Her habits baffled the household. She barely ate, spoke sparingly, and often vanished for hours into the grey skies on her mighty dragon. The servants whispered of seeing her wander the halls at night, murmuring to herself in a language older than the North.

Cregan had witnessed it himself: her wandering, barefoot, as if in a trance, her lips forming soft, lilting words that left him uneasy. There was something haunting about her, something unknowable. Even the dogs kept their distance, tails tucked low when she passed.

He tried to dismiss the gnawing whispers as nonsense. Claere was a young woman far from home, a stranger in the harsh, unyielding North, navigating customs as cold and unrelenting as its winters. Of course, she would struggle. Of course, she would seem strange.

And yet, the stories clung to him like frost on iron.

The Valyrian witch, they called her. The true queen of pale fire and blood magic. Beautiful, yes, but unnatural—a creature of strange songs and sleepless nights. Whispers filled the keep, spoken in low tones by bannermen and servants alike. They said her kind preferred the taste of human flesh to that of beast, that her gifts were double-edged: capable of charm and destruction in equal measure.

Cregan had never been one to indulge superstition. The North demanded practicality, not folly. But Claere...

Her harp’s strange, haunting melodies still lingered in his mind, dissonant and otherworldly. Her violet eyes, too large, too sharp, seemed to see into places no mortal gaze should reach. She walked the halls of Winterfell in silence, barefoot and unflinching, her expression distant as if caught in a dream—or a curse.

With her, the line between myth and reality blurred in ways he hated.

A sharp echo of boots on stone pulled him from his brooding. He looked up from the ledger to see two figures approaching the long table, their movements halting and uncertain. A man and a woman, wrapped in wool cloaks patched from many winters past, their faces pale and taut with worry.

“My lord,” the man began, his voice trembling as he bowed low. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, twisting the frayed fabric nervously. “Forgive the intrusion, but we... we need your help.”

Cregan closed the ledger with deliberate slowness, the thud of its binding echoing in the chamber. He stood, his dark brows knitting together. “Help?”

“Our children,” the woman blurted, her voice cracking as she clutched her husband’s arm. “They’ve not returned from the woods. They went out hours ago. They were with...”

She faltered, her throat tightening around the name.

“With?” Cregan prompted, his voice cold and edged with steel.

“With the princess,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the floor.

The name landed like an axe stroke.

“Claere?” The word came sharp, almost incredulous, but the knot in his chest tightened.

“They were curious about her, my lord,” the man added hastily. “About that dragon. My lady, she told them stories, and... well, they followed her.” His voice grew quieter. “We thought they’d be back before long, but they haven’t. It’s... it’s nearly sundown.”

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the narrow window, where the last streaks of sunlight bled orange into the encroaching dark. The North woods were no place for small children, not with wolves and worse lurking in the shadows.

“How old are they?” he asked, his tone clipped, his jaw tightening further.

“Six and four,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “Their names are Jonnel and Betha. Please, Lord Stark. Please bring my pups back to me.”

Her words cracked with desperation, the kind only a mother could summon. But Cregan barely heard her. His mind was already racing, drawn inexorably back to Claere.

Her strange, sleepless eyes. Her murmured words to herself, were too soft to catch yet unsettling in their rhythm. The echoes of the harp still rang faintly in his mind, haunting and cold.

The rumours clawed at him like unseen hands. Could she truly have harmed the children? The image of her, pale and otherworldly, the fire casting strange shadows across her sharp features, surfaced unbidden. He thought of the dragon she claimed was hers, a beast as enigmatic as its mistress.

No. He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. It was ridiculous. It had to be. But still...

“Ready the horses,” he said, at last, his voice a low growl.

The woman sobbed with relief as her husband bowed low. Cregan turned away without another word, fastening his cloak and striding toward the courtyard. His men fell in behind him, ready to patrol, their silence speaking to the gravity of the task ahead.

As they mounted, he cast one last glance toward the keep. Somewhere within its ancient stones, she was likely unaware of the turmoil she’d caused—or worse, unbothered by it.

He spurred his horse forward, his thoughts darker than the woods they now entered. Whatever they found out there, he knew this much: Claere was not a woman to be trusted.

The woods swallowed the last light of day, the shadows deepening to a near impenetrable black. The only sounds were the crunch of hooves on frosted leaves and the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. Cregan rode at the head of the patrol, Ice strapped across his back, its weight a constant reminder of duty.

The trees closed in around them, gnarled branches clawing at the sky, and the cold bit sharper here, as if the forest itself sought to repel them. His men called out the children’s names—Jonnel, Betha—voices ringing out into the empty expanse. But none dared call for her.

His breath misted as his thoughts churned. The bloodied image of Claere from his imagination melded uncomfortably with reality. The rumours whispered in Winterfell grew louder in his mind. He gripped the reins tighter.

“Lord Stark!”

The shout snapped his attention forward. One of the men pointed, and there she was, emerging from the underbrush like some ghostly specter. Claere.

Her hands were slick with blood, crimson streaking her pale fingers and arms, as though freshly painted. Her skirts, once pristine, were smeared with mud and more blood, dark streaks dragged haphazardly across the fabric as if she’d wiped her hands there in haste. Her feet were bare, toes red and raw against the frostbitten earth, and her hair had fallen from its usual bindings, wild tendrils framing her gaunt, hollow face.

Cregan halted his horse so abruptly it reared off the track, and he dismounted in a single swift motion. Ice sang as he drew it, the great blade gleaming even in the dim light.

He approached his wife slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

Claere’s head lifted at the sound of his boots crunching against the frost. Her violet eyes, tired and strange, met his. She took a hesitant step forward, but he raised the blade. Wordlessly.

Her steps faltered. She blinked, and though her expression remained still, her hands trembled, her fingers twitching at her sides. Slowly, she stepped back, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"My lord," she said, her voice hollow, as if the words were spoken from a great distance.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The stories screamed in his mind—the Valyrian witch, blood and fire, the maneater, the beautiful demon.

“The children?” His voice was low, hard, edged with suspicion.

Claere did not flinch. She turned her head, glancing westward. “The brook by the tall trees,” she said, her voice faint and uneven. “I only tried—”

But he didn’t wait for more. He sheathed Ice and strode past her, his pace swift and resolute. His men followed, their torches bobbing behind him like fleeting will-o’-the-wisps.

The landmark came quickly, the brook glinting faintly in the moonlight, its surface not yet frozen over. At its edge stood a towering tree with roots gnarled and exposed, reaching toward the stream like claws. Beneath its shelter, he saw them.

Jonnel and Betha.

The children were huddled together beneath a cloak far too large for them, their small feet tucked into the softness. Claere’s cloak. The fire before them sputtered weakly, the last of its life fed by scraps of leather—her shoes again, he realized, sacrificed to the flames.

For a moment, he simply stared, the scene pressing on him. The children were unharmed. Warm. Protected.

The men moved quickly, retrieving the little ones, murmuring reassurances as they wrapped them in blankets. Cregan didn’t follow. His gaze remained on the remnants of the fire, on the makeshift items strewn about—the cloak she’d offered, the shoes she’d burned.

When he turned back toward the woods, he saw her standing at a distance, her shoulders hunched as if against the cold. Her hands hung limply at her sides, stained red but empty. She did not meet his eyes, staring instead at the children being carried away.

The suspicion that had burned so fiercely in his chest faltered. He looked at her again—not the witch, not the monster, but the woman who had given what little she had to keep two helpless children safe. The moment stretched, and he felt something stir—an unease that wasn’t borne of mistrust, but of something far heavier. Guilt.

Yet still, the concern lingered. The blood on her hands, the strange air about her—it was all too much. Too foreign. Too other.

He shook it off and turned away, climbing into his saddle. The ride back to Winterfell would be long, and the questions clinging to his thoughts longer still.

“The horses, my lord,” one of his men called, gesturing toward the horses. An extra one.

“Leave her one,” Cregan commanded. “Let her do as she pleases.”

He cast one last glance over his shoulder. She had taken to kneeling by the brook, a silent figure against the shadowed woods. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if she was praying—to whom, or for what, he could not say.

And then he rode on, the ghost of her presence trailing after him like a haunting he could not outrun.

Cregan leaned against the cold stone of the ramparts, the weight of the night pressing down on him. Below, the gates of Winterfell stood sturdy and silent, the soft glow of torches marking the perimeter. His breath came in slow, heavy puffs, mingling with the frost of the air. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, and yet his eyes lingered on the road leading from the woods, scanning for the faintest silhouette of a rider.

Her bloodied hands plagued him. He shook his head, frustration knotting his chest. What had he done? In his anger, his doubt, he had left her. The memory of her kneeling by the brook, her skirts muddied, her face hollow with exhaustion, burned itself into his thoughts.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a gloved hand through his hair.

The sound of hooves on stone broke the quiet, and his heart stuttered. He leaned forward, eager, catching sight of a figure dismounting in the courtyard below. It was her—already within the keep. She hadn’t taken the horse he’d left; she’d come through Winter Town. Barefoot, frostbitten, her steps faltering but determined.

By the time Cregan reached her chamber, the air was thick with the sharp tang of herbs and damp wool. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint orange glow spilled out into the dim corridor. He paused, his hand resting against the rough wood, listening to the muffled movements within.

She was there, alone, perched on a low stool by the hearth. Her head was bowed, a curtain of silver hair falling across her face, her shoulders trembling as she worked. The basin at her feet was darkened with blood, the water tinged red and nearly frozen again. Her hands moved in slow, mechanical strokes, dabbing a cloth over the angry cuts on her fingers. Her frostbitten toes rested in the frigid water, the skin cracked and raw, as though she didn’t feel the sting of the cold.

It was the lack of reaction that unnerved him. She worked as if her body were something apart from herself, her expression distant, eerily calm, even serene.

“Claere,” he said, his voice rough, filling the silence.

She didn’t stir. Her focus remained locked on her hands, wiping at the blood as if she could somehow erase it from sight.

“Claere,” he said again, louder this time.

Her head lifted slowly, her eyes meeting his with a hollow detachment.

The sight of her—pale, bloodied, and so utterly calm—set his teeth on edge. Anger sparked in him, but it was an anger born of fear, of guilt, of not understanding sooner. He stepped inside, the door groaning on its hinges behind him.

“Stop,” he ordered, his tone sharper than he intended.

Her gaze flicked down to her hands, and for the first time, there was a flicker of awareness in her expression. Slowly, she lowered the cloth, her fingers trembling.

He crossed the room in two long strides, calling for the maester with a bark that echoed down the hall.

When Maester Kennet arrived moments later, his face tightened at the sight of her. “Lady Stark,” he said gently, kneeling beside her. “Please, allow me.”

Cregan stood back, his arms crossed, his eyes locked on her every movement. She didn’t resist as Kennet worked, applying oils and wrapping her hands with strips of linen soaked in pungent herbs. Even as the maester’s careful fingers pressed against the frostbitten flesh, she barely flinched. Her stillness was unsettling as if she had resigned herself to pain—or worse, as if she didn’t feel it at all.

“She’ll heal,” Kennet said when he finished, rising to face Cregan. “But the cold has taken its toll. She must stay warm, my lord.”

Cregan nodded curtly. “Thank you, maester.”

The room fell silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire. Claere remained where she was, her hands now neatly bandaged, her feet swaddled in cloth. She seemed smaller somehow, sitting there in the flickering light, her head bowed as though waiting for something she knew would not come.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice low and steady, though her gaze dropped to the basin at her feet. The words were measured, devoid of plea or softness. “It was never my intention to cause their parents grief. I misjudged the woods, the snow. The children swore they knew the way to the shrubs I needed.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the bloodied water, then back to her frostbitten toes. “They did their best.”

Cregan’s gut twisted at the sight of her—the bruised, bloodied hands, the faint tremor in her slender frame. But her tone, her words—they struck something raw in him. There was no defense, no demand for his apology. Just quiet truth, sharp and unadorned.

His grip on his emotions slipped. He’d pointed a sword at her throat, doubted her every action, accused her in his heart of monstrous things. She had borne it all without protest and still managed to save two children who weren’t hers to protect. And she had nearly frozen herself to do it.

He swallowed thickly. “Thank you,” he said at last, the words low and stiff, clawing their way out of his chest.

Her head lifted at the sound, her silver hair falling from her face. Her violet eyes found his, and for a moment, the room seemed colder. She studied him in silence as if trying to see past his words, past his name and title, straight to the marrow of the man.

“You doubted me.” Her voice was soft, but it carried a bite—a blade, not dulled by anger, but honed by a quiet certainty. It wasn’t an accusation; it didn’t need to be.

“I…” He hesitated, the truth a jagged stone lodged in his throat. The weight of what he’d assumed, of how he’d treated her, was unbearable now, standing here in this room with her bruised feet in freezing water and her bandaged hands still trembling. “I was wrong, princess.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought he saw the flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. But it was gone too quickly to name.

“Even the lord of Winterfell,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet irony, “can be wrong.”

He stiffened at the words, but not from anger. They weren’t spoken to wound. There was no malice in her tone, just an acknowledgment of the raw, human truth that he’d been so slow to see.

Her gaze dropped again to her hands, now wrapped tightly with linen soaked in oils and herbs. She flexed her fingers experimentally, as though testing the pain, but her expression barely changed. Only her lips moved, faintly, a breath too soft for him to hear.

Cregan watched her with a churn in his chest he couldn’t name. She was still too strange, too foreign, her pale beauty both otherworldly and unsettling. But there was something else now, something gnawing at the edges of his certainty.

“You burned your shoes,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended.

She glanced at him, startled, as though she’d forgotten he was still there. “The fire wouldn’t hold in the snow,” she replied simply. “Leather burns slower than wood.”

“And the cloak?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sewn with wool and lined with my blood,” she said, showing him her wounded palms. “It was all I had left to keep them warm.” She shrugged faintly as if such a thing were obvious.

His chest tightened. She’d used her own blood to insulate the children, to keep them warm while she bore the frost herself. He thought of the sight of her in the woods, barefoot in the snow, her skirts smeared with blood. How quickly he had drawn his blade. How sure he had been that she was a monster.

And here she was, undoing every dark thought he’d clung to with a calmness that only made him feel smaller.

“Why?” he asked, though the word felt hollow as it left his mouth.

Her brows furrowed, as though the question confused her. “Because they were cold,” she said simply, tilting her head. “And I was not.”

There was no answer to that. No apology would be enough. He stared at her, his chest heavy with something unfamiliar. Guilt, shame, and something else—a growing awareness that this woman, this strange, pale figure who unsettled him so deeply, had a strength that defied the stories whispered behind her back.

As the silence stretched between them, she turned her gaze back to the water. Her fingers brushed the surface, red streaks curling like smoke in the fading warmth. “The children,” she said, breaking the quiet. “They are safe?”

“Aye,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

She nodded once, her expression unreadable. “Good,” she said softly, as if that were the only thing that mattered.

[ I have no idea why I rejected this scene, I think I didn't explain it as well or just did not have enough evidence to support Cregan's mistrust, the description wasn't up to par, it was just all over the place, so I wrote it off. ]

SCENE #2 (part ii) - SOAP AND BUBBLES

Winterfell was meaner than Claere had imagined—colder than the stories ever told. The air seemed to gnaw at her, the chill seeping beneath layers of fur and silk. But it wasn’t just the weather; it was the people, the customs, their lives. Northern life was unyielding, hard as the ironwood trees that dotted the wolfswood. Mercy was a luxury the North could not afford.

Claere had begun to learn the harsh ways of her new home. She spent long hours pouring over maps in the solar, her fingers tracing the paths of rivers and trade routes. She watched with quiet vigilance, absorbing everything—how the men spoke of war and how disputes were resolved swiftly and without sentiment. She’d even resorted to mingling with the maids and stewards, overhearing their fierce remarks about her. It stung, but she endured, knowing that respect was earned here, never freely given.

Cregan noticed. He always noticed.

At first, it was the odd tilt of her head when someone spoke, the way her clothes turned to more cloaks and furs, darker shades of his own colours rather than Targaryen colours, how her lips pressed together in thought. Then it was her diligence—how she’d taken to studying the Stark family ledgers without complaint, or how she lingered longer in the courtyards, her eyes sharp and observant of the children playing. She was... different. Strange, yes. Vigilant, certainly. But hers was a quiet resilience, the kind that never stopped intriguing him.

On his fortnightly ride to White Harbor, the thought of her lingered, as it often did these days. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand—the long lists of goods to inspect, the tallies to confirm—but her image crept into the quiet moments between. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the soft cadence of her voice when she spoke of the godswood, her quiet intensity as she studied maps in the flickering firelight.

Winterfell’s larders were vast and well-stocked, but White Harbor offered treasures the North could not produce—southern goods that reminded him of her, a woman so different from the hard, unyielding stone around them.

He moved among the crates of grain, smoked fish, and wool with the practised eye of a Stark lord. Each decision he made carried the weight of his house, and his men knew better than to question his scrutiny. But when he came upon the crates of southern wares, he paused.

“What else do you have from Dorne?” he asked the merchant, his tone sharp with interest.

The man looked at him, startled, before recovering. “Fruits, spices—cinnamon, saffron, dried lemons. They fetch a high price, my lord.”

“Bring more next time,” Cregan said, his voice brooking no argument. “Fresh, if you can manage it. And anything else of quality from the capital—items meant for royals.”

The merchant nodded eagerly. “Of course, my lord. Is there anything specific you seek?”

Cregan paused, considering. “Vegetarian fare,” he said at last. “Dried herbs, cheeses, and anything light. She...” He stopped himself, feeling the weight of his men’s curious gazes. “The Lady of Winterfell has particular tastes,” he finished curtly.

It wasn’t intentional, not at first. As the goods were sorted, his gaze wandered to another stall nearby, smaller but filled with curiosities from Essos—glass beads, bolts of silk, carved wooden idols. But when he saw the little bar of soap, nestled between silks, it stopped him in his tracks. It was a lovely thing, carved with intricate patterns and scented like lilies. He turned it over in his palm, imagining her expression if he gifted it to her.

“She’ll think you’re courting her,” one of his men teased, his grin wide.

“Then let her think it,” Cregan replied gruffly, tucking the soap into his saddlebag.

When he rode back to Winterfell, the cold biting at his cheeks, the thought of her remained a quiet warmth in his chest. The blood oranges, dates, and soap nestled in his saddlebag felt like small tokens, yet they carried a significance he didn’t yet have the words to express.

In his mind, he pictured her as she might look when she found the soap—a small, private smile tugging at her lips, the kind that made the world outside Winterfell feel momentarily distant. It was a thought that stayed with him, warming him far more than the furs on his back.

He left the gift in her chambers that evening, no note, no ceremony. The next day, he knew she had found it. The scent of lilies wove its way through Winterfell like a secret, light and intoxicating. It clung to the cold stone, a defiance of the North’s austerity.

By the time he passed her chambers that evening, the fragrance was stronger, laced with warmth from the hearthfire within. Her door hung ajar, as it often did—a small defiance she had taken to after remarking how Winterfell’s doors seemed designed to shut out the world. Cregan paused, his hand brushing the uneven wood of the doorframe. The hinges needed mending, he noted absently, his eyes narrowing.

He meant to pull it closed. He meant to walk away. But the faint sound of water—soft, sloshing and rhythmic—stilled his hand. His instincts told him to leave, to respect her privacy. But a flicker of motion within drew his gaze like a lodestone.

Just one glance. One little peek.

Gods, this was hell. The hearthlight gilded her bare shoulders, turning her skin to honeyed gold. Steam curled lazily around her, softening the stark edges of the chamber. Her hair, a tumble of silver silk, was piled atop her head, loose strands clinging to the damp nape of her neck. She moved with an unhurried grace, her back to him, the soap he had gifted her sliding over her skin.

Cregan went immobilized, his breath caught in his throat. The soap’s lather trailed down her shoulder, gleaming against her bare arm before vanishing into the water. Her movements were deliberate, sensual without intent, a quiet intimacy that made his pulse pound. He drank in the curve of her back, the subtle lines of her ribs, the delve of her spine, the elegant slope of her neck.

She was a sight to rival the old gods themselves.

A muscle in his jaw tightened as heat flared low in his stomach, an ache sharp and sudden. She was so different here, stripped of the Northern chill and her careful composure. She was soft. Vulnerable. A creature of fire and moonlight, wholly unguarded in her private sanctuary.

For a man of the North, accustomed to restraint, this was dangerous ground. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles whitening as he struggled against the urge to step inside, to close the door behind him, to join her—

“Lord Stark.”

The voice shattered the spell. He turned sharply, his shoulders stiff, to find one of her handmaidens standing behind him. Her gaze flickered to the open door, her expression caught between curiosity and amusement.

“The hinges,” he said gruffly, his voice lower than usual. “They need mending.”

She arched a brow, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Lady Stark prefers it that way, m'lord. She likes the air.”

Cregan forced a curt nod, stepping back and away from the door, away from the golden light and the intoxicating scent of lilies. “See to it,” he muttered, his tone clipped.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode toward his chambers, his steps heavy and deliberate. Once inside, he pushed the door shut with more force than necessary and leaned against it, dragging a hand down his face.

The scent still clung to him, subtle yet maddening. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the image of her—bathed in firelight, her skin glistening, her form so achingly bare—to fade. But it didn’t. It stayed with him, carved into his mind, an unshakable temptation.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, sinking into the nearest chair. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath, and for the first time in years, Cregan Stark felt truly undone.

She was a storm he hadn’t anticipated, and she was far more dangerous than the winter winds ever could be.

[ I love how i deleted so many horny Cregan scenes, like I have two more of him just being a simp for his wife. lmao we love a pathetic lovey-dovey king ]

SCENE #3 (part iv) - BOW SHOOT

When Cregan sought her out to share the latest developments, he found her in the courtyard, not with her harp nor wandering the keep, but standing alone by the practice yard. She was a pale figure against the rough-hewn timber and frost-covered ground, a giant bow in her hands. Her eyes narrowed in quiet concentration as she drew the string back, the soft morning light catching the strands of silver in her hair.

Cregan paused by the stockades, his brow furrowing in curiosity. She was an unusual sight here, out of place among the cracked leather targets and straw dummies. Yet there was a determination in her stance, something raw and deliberate, even as the arrow she released flew wide, thudding into the frozen ground with an audible lack of grace.

She frowned, her lips tightening, but said nothing as she adjusted her grip and notched another arrow.

“Planning to shoot your way out of trouble now, princess?” Cregan called, his voice carrying over the yard. Though the words were light, his eyes lingered on her, taking in her unflinching focus.

Claere’s head turned slightly, her gaze meeting his for the briefest of moments. There was no smile, no coy remark—just that same steady resolve. “The bow was left by the yard,” she said, her tone as cool as the frost beneath their boots.

He approached, boots crunching against the frozen dirt. “And you thought to pick it up?”

“I thought to try,” she replied, not looking at him this time. Her fingers trembled slightly as she drew the string back again.

The release was awkward, the arrow wobbling and veering far from the target. Cregan sighed and stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow over her. “A bow’s no use if you don’t know how to wield it,” he said, his tone softer now, but still tinged with amusement.

When the second shot went wide, he couldn’t help but smirk. “A bow’s no use to someone who doesn’t know how to wield it,” he said, stopping just short of her.

Her grip on the bow tightened, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. But instead, she turned her head, her gaze meeting his with that same unsettling calm. “Then show me,” she said simply.

The words hit him like a challenge, quiet but loaded with meaning. Without a word, he stepped behind her, closing the space between them until his chest was nearly flush against her back. The sharp scent of pine and leather clung to him, and she stiffened, though not out of fear.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. He adjusted her stance, his touch firm but careful, like a sculptor shaping something fragile. “Relax. You can’t shoot if you’re this tense.”

She inhaled sharply, her body responding instinctively to his nearness. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, sliding down her arms to guide her.

“You’re stiff as stone,” he chided softly, his hands sliding to her arms, steering them gently. “Let go of some of that pride. A bow doesn’t care for it.”

She inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the target ahead. But all she could feel was him—solid, steady, and far too close. His fingers brushed hers, calloused and warm, as he helped her notch another arrow.

“Draw slowly,” he instructed, his hot breaths against her cheek. “Feel the tension. Don’t fight it.”

Her pulse thundered as she drew the string back, the bow creaking under the strain. His hands moved over hers, steadying her grip. She could feel the rhythm of his breaths, deep and even, and unconsciously, she matched it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, closer. She swore she felt the faintest graze of his lips against the shell of her ear, though it could have been the ghost of her imagination. “Focus. You’re not thinking about the target.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears as the bowstring thrummed under the tension. Her fingers felt too cold, her cheeks too warm, and his hands too solid, too sure as they held her steady.

“Let go, love,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just an instruction. It was a command, a promise, a challenge.

She released the string, the arrow slicing through the air. It struck the edge of the target—not perfect, but far better than before. A breathless laugh escaped her lips, surprising even herself.

“A fine attempt,” Cregan said, his voice laced with approval. But he didn’t step away. His hands lingered on hers, the rough calluses brushing against her softer skin, his touch deliberate, deliberate enough to send a shiver down her spine.

“And if I miss?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her head tilting slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. The movement brought her lips close—too close—to his.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable. Slowly, his fingers slid along the inside of her wrist, his touch featherlight, tracing the delicate veins beneath her skin.

“Then I’ll catch you,” he said.

The silence that followed was thick; charged. For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—their breath mingling in the cold air, the tension crackling like the belly of a beast.

And then he stepped back, the absence of his warmth a jarring contrast to the heat still lingering on her skin.

“Try again,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still burned with something unspoken.

She turned back to the target, her movements steady, though her heart was anything but. When she drew the string again, she couldn’t help but feel his gaze on her—not just watching but waiting.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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sunny374940 · 7 months ago

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Fic masterpost

Hello, I'm sunny. I write fanfic for Dragon Age: The Veilguard, Arcane, and also original stories. There's fluff, angst and convoluted plots. And the occasional smut.

This here is a list of all my stories so far, for anyone who wants to read them. I love chatting with people in the comments, if you feel so inclined <3

My ao3 is Sunny_Under_Mountain

Here's a Q&A about my darling Rook for anyone interested. And here's a vibe moodboard for him, because it's pretty. And OC wardrobe. I'm just playing dolls with him at this point.

The latest stories are up here, the rest (and boy, is there a lot) under the cut.

Skeletons can have sisters too (ch.5/?) - a collection of drabbles from Manfred's POV, centering on his interactions (and inevitable shenanigans) with his little sister Ellie.

Shadows Falling (ch.15/?) - Rhys learns to walk again and Ciaran is slowly learning to accept being loved (it's tough going).

Ciaran is a thief on the run. He disobeyed orders and now he will have to pay the price, one that haunts his nightmares. Rhys is a mage, trying to save his sister. And catching a thief and bringing him to his employers might help him get her back. But it probably won't be that simple. And feelings will begin rearing their heads, ones that neither of the men expected.

Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Multi-chapter works:

Alone with you (chapter 4/?) - Emmrich and Rook leave for their honeymoon and have a nice time. There are flowers and sex, and swimming lessons and wildlife encounters and who knows what else future holds

May I have this dance (chapters 2/2) - Emmrich and Rook attend a ball and Rook hates it. Until he doesn't. cw: short mention of sexual harrasment, lots of consensual gay sex in the second chapter

I will be waiting with open arms (chapters 3/3) - Emmrich dies at the age of ninety seven and Rook, who is seventy two now, receives one last letter from his love and then they get reunited in the afterlife (bring your tissues to read this one)

Did you hit your head? (chapters 2/2) - a fun little story about Rook and Emmrich pining and Davrin and Assan being the best wingmen

Love and (almost) loss (series):

Our love is not to be hidden - Rook gets badly injured and Emmrich has to deal with his feelings for him

I fall apart without you - Emmrich has a nightmare about losing Rook, hurt/comfort

I will stay with you through all of this - hurt/comfort, little bit of gore at the start. Emmrich almost dies in the process of saving Rook, who is quite upset about this.

Happiness is a noise you make (series):

The sound of your happiness warms my heart - fluff. Emmrich finds out Rook can purr.

Let me hear your joy again - fluff. Rook receives a gift from Emmrich

The family we've found (series): stories about Emmrich and Rook raising their daughter Elanora

Orphans and foundlings - a little story about Rook and Emmrich getting a baby. Fluff, tiny bit of angst

You are safe with me - babywearing Emmrich. Just pure self-indulgent fluff

Any questions? - Emmrich takes baby Elanora with him to be a guest lecturer in one of his lessons (fluff)

I missed you, little brother - Rook has a twin sister, Willow, and here she meets the little family for the first time.

Sleepless nights - Emmrich and Rook comfort a crying baby

Being a father - Emmrich worries about fatherhood, fluff and angst

When I see your light shine, I know I'm home - fluff. Emmrich and Rook get married, the whole gang is here and it's so very sappy

I will teach you all I know - fluff. Emmrich learns that his daughter Elanora is a mage

Coming home - Emmrich returns home after a week away and his family have a surprise for him! Featuring Nevarran hazelnut torte and a sentimental necromancer.

Safe in my arms - Emmrich sings his and Rook's daughter to sleep. That's it, that's the fic. It's very sweet.

Your happiness is all I need - fluff, humor. Emmrich’s daughter is not a morning person, Emmrich has to deal

Have you learned your lesson, darlings? - fluff. Emmrich enjoys the snow with his family. There is a snowball fight.

Love is enough (series): here we follow Rook and Emmrich during the events of Fade Prison and afterwards. There's a lot of hurt and also a lot of comfort.

Nothing will keep you from me - saving Rook from the Fade prison

Don't leave me, please - what Rook was going through in the Fade prison (a lot)

May I kiss you? - Rook is not doing well in the aftermath of Fade Prison and Emmrich wants so badly to help him, but he keeps getting pushed away (angst with happy ending)

I have my moments, darling - Emmrich gets revenge at Solas for hurting Rook in the Fade Prison. It's glorious.

The smut (not a series):

Tell me I'm yours - Rook has a praise kink

Let me take care of you - a little bondage, some feelings. Rook is angry and tries to pick a fight with Emmrich

There is nothing I want more than you - Rook wants Emmrich's attention and he gets it

Is that a new shirt? - Rook wears a crop top and Emmrich is very much into it

Patience, darling - Emmrich makes Rook wait for what he wants.

Why don't we try something new? - Rook wants to try topping Emmrich for the first time and it goes quite well

I would like to make you blush, if I may - Rook is a bit inexperienced and flustered at just about everything. A blowjob happens

Let me show you how beautiful you are - Emmrich is insecure about his looks and Rook shows him how much he adores him.

The hurt/comfort (also not a series):

Don't do that again - Emmrich gets sick, Rook gets worried

You are worth any danger, love - Emmrich gets caught in a building collapse and almost dies, Rook comes to his aid.

Feeling better, darling? - Emmrich helps Rook through a migraine

I will rip the world apart for you - cw: gore, torture. Rook gets captured by the Venatori and Emmrich comes to the rescue

Assorted fluff:

Adventures in baking - Rook wants to impress Emmrich by baking him cookies, but things don't go according to plan

I am yours - Rook gives Emmrich flowers.

Love is stored in the hat - domestic fluff about first snow and gifts

Damn Sky Whales universe:

Damn Sky Whales (ch.14/14) - (modern fantasy, romance, adventure) The story follows the romance of Fern and Gareth. Fern is a half-elven researcher in the field of thaumology, who is trying to figure out why dragons started disappearing. He gets assigned a bodyguard, whom he doesn't at all need. Nor want. Until he finds himself wanting him. Gareth is a former mercenary turned bodyguard, who is very much a professional and is not going to fall for his client. And what starts as simple research into dragons turns into something much bigger than either of them expected.

A Unicorn's Children - set in the Damn Sky Whales world, the chronicles of Pointy the Unicorn

An interesting side effect - Fern gets his hands on energy drinks. They seem to affect his magic in quite fun ways.

A second crib - Fern and Gareth want to adopt a child. They end up with a bit more than they bargained for, but they're happy all the same.

Shadows Falling

Shadows Falling (ch.15/?) - Ciaran is a thief on the run. He disobeyed orders and now he will have to pay the price, one that haunts his nightmares. Rhys is a mage, trying to save his sister. And catching a thief and bringing him to his employers might help him get her back. But it probably won't be that simple. And feelings will begin rearing their heads, ones that neither of the men expected.

Arcane

A light in darkness - What happened to Jayce and Viktor after they disappeared at the end of the series? Something good for a change, because they deserve it.

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divaofmads · 1 month ago

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A Love Meant To Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (Oc)

Chapter I , Chapter II

Chapter III: Your Name Was the Enemy

Chapter Summary: She knew exactly what she was doing. He was already broken the moment she looked back. Now, their story isn't about right or wrong. It’s about how far they’ll go when love feels like ruin.

Warnings: Angst, +18, Emotional trauma and guilt, Suicidal thoughts and themes of death, Complex and challenging relationship dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. **I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional**

Word Count: 10k

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: This one took a piece of me to write. it’s the kind of chapter where you know the characters are making choices they might never recover from, and you just sit there — helpless — watching it all unfold.

This isn’t just about love. it’s about the kind of love that hurts. the kind that demands you to choose between your heart and your sanity. between what you want, and what you can live with.

When the day revealed itself through the pale light slipping into the mouth of the cave, you were still asleep. Your cheek rested against Joel’s chest, your breath gently touching his skin — warm, patient, and innocent. One of Joel’s arms held you close, while the other rested on your shoulder; his fingertips moved slightly, not gripping you tightly but carrying a sense of possession that made it clear he wouldn’t let go. Your breath was like a soft echo rising and falling on his chest; each exhale a form of penance for him, a reminder.

He wanted to watch the peace spreading across your face when you woke up and realized you were still beside him — but it wasn’t time. Not yet. He hadn’t told you. Not yet… he hadn’t stolen you from yourself.

Joel’s head was leaned back against the damp stone wall of the cave. After a sleepless night, his eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was wide awake. The body that bore the marks of war seemed a little lighter in his arms. But the weight in his heart… that had become a burden harder and harder to carry. When his fingers tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, what passed through him wasn’t just love; it was also fear. Guilt.

Jackson was close now. Beyond the jagged cliffs lay that small, protected town — full of truths. Names. Faces. Answers. And Joel knew he wouldn’t be able to look into your eyes there. Because that town carried the truth that would tear you from him: that the man holding you so tenderly right now was the one who had killed your father.

But this morning… these few hours… you were still in his arms. He could still feel the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath his heart. And when he gently pulled the blanket over both of you, it wasn’t just to keep you warm — it was to make you a little more unforgettable. As though he wanted to protect you from more than just the cold of the cave. Wrapping his arms around your body, he rested his head in your hair for a moment. He closed his eyes. He wanted the moment to last forever. But time had never been kind to Joel Miller.

When he opened his eyes again, the first chill of morning brushed across his face. You exhaled softly and stirred a little. Your body still leaned into his, but you were waking up.

Joel saw your eyelids flutter, and he reached out to caress your cheek. His fingers glided gently from the curve of your cheek to just under your chin. Then his voice came, soft as a whisper.

“Hey... time to wake up, darlin’.”

In the way he said it, there was a kind of refuge. A way to say he loved you without saying the words. When your waking eyes met his, he saw the sleepy smile spreading across your face. Not the gaze of a stranger, but the look of a woman who trusted him.

And in that moment, Joel’s heart ached just a little more.

Because he didn’t know how he’d look into those eyes soon.

By the time night fell, snow had begun to fall slowly. The sky had closed over them like a gray blanket; the wind had turned into a whisper humming in their ears. But this night was different from the others. Joel stopped the horse to tend to your bleeding wounds. But…

You saw it as he searched through the inside of the backpack. His fingers reached for things that were no longer there: a roll of bandages, sterile gauze, a single dose of antibiotic capsules… all used up when Joel had refreshed the dressings on your wounds. The last bottle of alcohol had been used yesterday to clean the gash on yout knee.

There was nothing left.

No painkillers, no antiseptics.

Only a few dirty bandages, a half-dried spool of suture thread, and a broken pair of scissors.

Joel’s gaze drifted down to the worn-out pack beneath his hand. Then he quietly bowed his head. He knew it too. The truth lived in the silence. This was the phase of wounds that no longer healed.

The injury on your shoulder… that had been the beginning. Every minute a wound remained uncleansed, time turned into the enemy. And the enemy in your shoulder had already started creeping beneath the skin.

The edges of the wound had begun to bruise. Your skin was hot to the touch, but hard like stone. Every contact with that area triggered your body’s defense systems, setting your nerve endings on fire. The infection was spreading from within, beginning to take hold of your entire system.

You tried not to show Joel. You staggered as you stood but fixed a determined expression on your face. “We have to keep moving,” you said, as if nothing had happened.

But you hesitated for a moment as you took a step.

Joel noticed. He took a step toward you, wanting to reach for your shoulder, but you pulled away.

“I’m fine,” you said again. Like a wounded animal… and took another step.

Joel stopped. He knew. He had seen that look in the last days of Tess. The ones who tried the hardest to hide their pain were often the ones suffering the most.

But with you, it was different. You weren’t carrying pain — you were carrying vengeance. Your wound was burning not just your flesh, but your soul. And you were someone too strong — or perhaps too broken — to let the man beside you carry you.

The rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves striking snow-covered stones rose through the silence like a kind of music. The pale light of the sun seeped gently from the mountain slopes, and the droplets sparkling on the frozen branches along the path looked like crystals hanging from the sky. The air was still sharp, still cold… but the wind blowing inside you now belonged to an entirely different climate.

You were in front of Joel, seated in his lap. Nestled between his knees, your back leaned against his chest. Your hands were wrapped around his; your fingers locked together tightly, as if they had known each other across the passage of time. Your body had surrendered to his warmth. And so had your heart. There was a promise now, in the way his arm wrapped around you.

“You’re quiet,” you said, resting your head back toward his shoulder. Your eyes weren’t focused on the horizon — they were focused on him. “You’re thinking.”

Joel’s throat was dry. With the horse’s slow but steady steps, his thoughts were moving too. Each step brought you both closer to Jackson; each vibration pushed him further toward the truth… the truth he had to tell you but still couldn’t bring himself to.

“I always think,” he said, voice low and husky. “But someone like you... you drown out a man’s thoughts.”

You smiled. Without hesitation. No matter how much pain you had endured, the bond between you and this man had begun to outshine the past.

“What did you think when you found me?” you asked in a whisper. “Honestly.”

The muscles in Joel’s jaw tightened. When the horse flinched slightly, he tightened the reins, but the real jolt had been inside his chest.

“I wondered... who you were. Why you were alone. Why you were so close to death.”

“And still, you saved me,” you said, resting your head on his chest. “I’m glad you did.”

Silence hung for a few heartbeats. Joel swallowed the words rising to his lips. *I killed your father.* The words hovered on the edge of his mouth, so close they nearly slipped free. But then you turned slightly toward him on the horse, your face glowing with affection.

“When I look at you, my pain quiets,” you said. “Everything inside me goes still. Only you remain.”

In that moment, Joel felt like someone crushed beneath his own weapon in battle. Defeated. Defenseless. And ashamed.

He brought his face close to your neck, breathed you in deeply. “I’m not the man you think I am, darlin’. I might… let you down.”

“Have you?” you asked, turning slightly. Your eyes were serious, but carried hope too. “Have you abandoned me? Hurt me? Loved me with lies?”

Joel wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Because your eyes were locked onto his. Only a few inches separated your lips, and your breath scorched his skin.

“It’s not possible to love you with lies,” he said at last. “Because loving you... is already the purest kind of truth.”

As the horse continued on its path, you laid your head against his chest again. Your eyes had welled with tears, but the smile on your lips remained. This journey was nothing like the one you’d first started. You weren’t just leaning on Joel anymore — you had surrendered to him. Without fear. Without question.

But Joel’s eyes were now fixed on something else in the winding bend of the distant valley. As Jackson drew near, the past cast its shadow again.

And in that shadow, something as sharp as love was waiting: the truth.

As the cold seeped through the forest like a thin mist, you continued your journey. With each trot of the horse pressing into the snow-mixed earth, the rising shadows of the mountains whispered that Jackson was near. But in that silence, it wasn’t just the sound of hooves that filled the air—there was something else between you: pain.

The wound on your shoulder was the only thing that truly kept you awake. Beneath the bandage, it throbbed relentlessly, each breath sending a knife-like jolt through your flesh. But you didn’t make a sound. You clenched your teeth. You didn’t want anything to cast a shadow over the bond growing stronger each day between you and Joel… the trust… the love.

But Joel Miller was a careful man. He knew that in silence, even body language could be a scream. And your scream was the trembling in your shoulder. No matter how hard you tried to sit upright on the horse, he had noticed every time you shifted your weight away from your right side, every moment you secretly rubbed your shoulder, every sharp breath you held back.

Suddenly, he stopped his horse. You instinctively pulled away.

“We need to stop,” he said. His voice was firm, but there were cracks in it—he could hear your pain.

You lowered your head, clenched your jaw. “No… no, please. We can keep going. Jackson isn’t far.”

Joel looked at you. His gaze was soft but stern—there was the expression of a man on the verge of breaking, holding himself back just to protect you.

“I see you,” he said. “You’re in pain with every step. Your shoulder’s in bad shape, the bandage is soaked through, there’s blood.”

You averted your eyes. “I can push through a little longer… How much farther could it be? Five, six hours? Maybe seven. Joel, please. If we stop now, we’ll have to spend the night in the mountains. We can’t afford to slow down any more.”

Joel’s face hardened. “We have to stop. Your health—”

“No!” you interrupted, the only word that came out loud. “You don’t know how much pain I can take. This wound is not more important than getting there. We need to warn them about the threat in Northpoint. You’ve already been delayed enough because of me. You can’t wait any longer. We have to make it. Both of us.”

Your words hung in the air. Joel locked his eyes on yours. The silence lasted long. Then he clenched his jaw, turned his head, and urged his horse forward.

“Alright,” he said, simply. His tone was hurt, but resigned. “But if we have to stop… this time, it’ll be my call.”

You nodded, burying the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You hoped this small victory over the man you loved would be enough to silence the ache. Joel pressed on, wrapped in silence, but his eyes kept drifting toward you.

If something happened to you… if you didn’t make it to Jackson together… it wouldn’t just be your anger he’d have to face.

And you, you had placed the invisible bond between you — the passion, the unfinished sentences, the traces of every touch — above everything else. Despite the pain, you kept riding, as if what you were fleeing wasn’t just the wound.

As the rhythmic steps of the horse echoed beneath you, the cold air surrounding you pressed down harder, like leaden clouds hanging low in the sky. Snow had started falling again during the night, and now it had seeped into the veins of the forest as a fine layer. But to you, the cold was not just a matter of weather — it was the echo of a threat rising from within your own body.

The wound on your shoulder was no longer just a source of pain, but a warning. At first, it had only throbbed — like the first sparks of infection, as your tissues battled the heat beneath your skin. But now, that throbbing had turned into a tremor spreading toward your internal organs. Your muscles were stiffening, your movements growing more mechanical by the hour.

You were aware of these symptoms. And you paid attention to every move to make sure Joel didn’t notice. You held your shoulder a little straighter, pinned your trembling hand to your thigh. Your breathing had quickened, but you released it slowly through your lips, as if it were only from exhaustion. But inside, you were burning.

Sweat traced from your scalp to the lines on your forehead. But this wasn’t from the cold — it was from the fire within. Your body was overflowing with white blood cells fighting off the infection, your immune system waging a war that was draining every ounce of your energy.

Your head began to spin. The images around you blurred in and out, the trunks of trees overlapping one another. Joel was behind you, always watching, always giving you space. You straightened up, not wanting him to notice your condition. Rubbed your eyes. Bit your lip. Your pupils had dilated — another sign of the fever.

You clung to the only weapon left in your mind: your will. You wouldn’t be a burden to Stranger. You’d already been enough of one. You had to tell them about the new infected type, and fast. And of course, there was also revenge.

JM. Two letters circling in your mind. And your father’s revenge. Joel Miller was in Jackson, and he was waiting for you to kill him without mercy.

You swallowed. It was a hard swallow, like a stone sinking down your throat. “I’m fine,” you told yourself. “Just a few more hours. Hold on.”

But Joel’s glances toward you were lasting longer now. He sensed something was wrong. Maybe he was waiting for you to realize it yourself. Maybe he was searching for a way to stop you before you even knew you needed to stop.

You pressed your knees tighter to the sides of the saddle to keep your balance. But this time, the nausea hit. The infection was reaching your core, your internal organs. Your heart beat faster, your lungs struggled to expand. Still, not a single groan escaped your lips. You swallowed. Blinked. And kept going.

Jackson had risen just beyond the final bend — molded by winter’s hands, covered in snow, silent and solid. Its walls, built by human labor, were as real as hope itself. As the radio towers stretched into the sky in the background, for the first time in a long time, arriving somewhere felt like a true “arrival.”

But for you, this was more than just an arrival. It was a reckoning.

The wound beneath your shoulder wasn’t just a cut — it was a silent prophecy reminding you of your father’s bloody end. As your body rotted, your soul marched toward one goal: find Joel Miller, confront him... and maybe even kill him.

Hiding the pain wasn’t easy, but for someone with a purpose, it became possible. Because revenge was more resilient than the immune system.

At the foot of Jackson, as you turned that final bend, your vision blurred. Snow poured before your eyes like rain. The white glare erased the boundary between your mind and reality. The only sound echoing in your ears was that of a figure calling from far away.

“Y/N?”

Joel’s voice came from a distance. Muffled, restrained, but worried. Yet you didn’t hear him.

You had already slipped into the past. Hallucinations often appeared in the final stages of such severe infections. The mind, rather than protecting reality, clung to memory. To your father... your final goodbye... and the name Joel Miller.

Your lips were dry, but parted involuntarily. The first syllable was bare and fragile: “Joel…”

Joel Miller. Your enemy. Your lover. Your killer.

In your mind, he stood there. With the gun pointed at your father, on that dark night, where it had all begun. And now, you had found him. Right at Jackson’s gates, just a second before your knees gave out. But this Joel wasn’t real. Just a ghost made of cortisol, inside your head.

“Dad…” your voice trembled. Raspy. “He… you…”

Joel pulled the reins, and the horse stopped abruptly.

“Y/N?”

He leaned forward, panic in his voice.

“Hey, look at me. What are you saying? What… what’s happening?”

Your eyes were already full. Your pupils had dilated, your body entering hyperthermic shock. Joel’s voice was fading. But to you, his face was clear. Even if it was a hallucination, his eyes were the same as the night he killed your father. And now he was in front of you. With your breath trembling, you whispered one last word before letting go:

“Joel… Miller…”

Joel’s eyes went wide. He dropped the reins and reached to catch you.

“Y/N! No, no… Damn it, NO! Sweetheart, look at me!”

As his hand touched your shoulder, your body began to slide from the horse.

And in that moment, the whole world went dark.

The last thing you heard was your name — called out in the voice of the man you loved, trusted, but were meant to hate:

“Y/N!”

A scream from the darkness startles you. Just one step ahead, you see your father collapsed to his knees—blood seeping from his chest, dripping onto the snow, turning into a dark red stain as it freezes. His face is pale, his breath ragged; his eyes turned to you in fear. Behind you, the silhouette of Redhill burns, like a city swallowed beyond the flames.

“Stop! Please!” you scream. Your voice echoes, but it’s as if no one hears it, swallowed by the apocalypse. Your foot won’t move forward, as if the ground is holding you, like a swamp… Every step delayed. Every breath feels like broken glass in your lungs.

That’s when you see the shadow for the first time.

A figure emerges from the mist. No face, no clear form. Only a shadow, only a silhouette… A gun in its hand, standing right in front of your father. Time feels frozen. You try to run toward the figure, pleading with a voice that cracks from your throat:

“Don’t! Please… What did this man ever do to you?!”

But there’s no answer.

You look at your father’s face. He looks like he just wants to see you one last time. His lips move:

“Run… sweetheart…”

Then the gunshot.

It’s like a bomb goes off inside your head. Your father’s body falling back happens in slow motion. Your legs give out beneath you. You collapse to your knees. Your breath shortens. Only one sound echoes in your ears: the shot, and then your father’s lifeless body.

Then you look again at the silhouette.

It begins to sharpen… The lines become clear… The eyes, the mouth, the hands… And suddenly, that name you’ve kept buried in your mind for years takes the shape of a face.

It’s Joel Miller.

But what shatters you more is that you *know* him.

The man you fell in love with. The one who saved you, held you, looked into your eyes and said, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His eyes are on you now, his face filled with pain. As if his heart is breaking, too.

“You…” you whisper. “You…”

And then that world starts to collapse.

The ground cracks, the sky darkens. Everything pulls downward, and you’re falling with it… Falling… Falling. And then—

Your eyelids felt like lead. It was as if you were slowly rising to the surface from a dark and formless void, one you couldn’t remember falling into. Like someone approaching the light… but the light here, in the real world, burned like a sharp dagger. You wanted to open your eyes—but couldn’t at first. The world beneath your eyelids throbbed with pain.

There was a high-pitched ringing in your head. Your ears were buzzing. Time and space felt distorted, your skull echoed like an empty tin can. You shifted slightly. Your whole body ached from head to toe. Especially your right leg—that place... it felt like it was on fire. But you were still alive. The pain, unbearable yet real, was proof of that.

You let out a soft breath. The sheets beneath you smelled unfamiliar. The dry, heavy scent of harsh soap, ash, and old wood fibers... You had definitely never been here before. Everything was unfamiliar.

That was when a voice echoed nearby. A young girl’s voice. Its tone was cautious, but laced with a faint kindness, like she’d been waiting patiently for you to wake without scaring you.

“Hey… looks like you’re finally waking up.”

At first, it sounded far away. Like you were hearing it underwater. When you strained your eyes open a little more, your vision was blurry. In the doorway, backlit by soft light, you could make out the silhouette of a young girl in a pale, long-sleeved shirt, with pony tailed hair. Your eyes blinked a few times, and the world slowly came into focus. She stepped closer, and when you tried to sit up, stumbling slightly, she raised her hand gently to stop you.

“Easy, take it slow. You’re still really weak,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for two days. Maria and I took care of you. Well... as best we could.”

Her voice was unfamiliar, yet it carried a strange kind of balance—calm, cautious, but trustworthy. Her movements were controlled, like she knew she was in a room with someone unpredictable, but still had the courage to offer that person a glass of water.

“Where… am I?” you asked, your voice cracked, hoarse and raspy. Your throat was parched, your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

The girl turned her head slightly, not looking away but also avoiding the question directly:

“We’re in Jackson. North of Wyoming, small settlement… pretty safe, all things considered.”

Jackson. That name rang a distant bell. Maybe from the crackling voice over the radio at the power plant, or Tommy’s echoing shout… or maybe from even further back. But your mind still felt clogged, like it was filled with mud. Nothing would stay in your grasp.

“Who… who are you?” you asked, lifting your head slightly from the pillow.

“Ellie,” she said plainly. “But don’t worry about that now. You need to rest.”

She had said her name—Ellie—but you noticed something else: she hadn’t mentioned the man who brought you here. The one who made it possible for you to stay, who had rescued you or carried you into this room. It was like she was hiding something—or had been told not to say. And yet, that voice… that voice still echoed in your ears. That deep and husky tone that had told you, as you trembled on horseback, “Don’t you give up.”

Ellie picked up a cracked-glass pitcher from the small nightstand. She filled a glass with water, its surface flecked with bits of dust. She held it out to you. Your fingers struggled to reach. You wanted the water, but you also wanted to grasp the truth behind everything.

She helped you, gently supporting your back and bringing the glass to your lips. Even the water burned as it passed down your throat. But at least you were drinking. You were alive.

As Ellie placed the glass back down, your eyes wandered around the room. Dark wooden walls. A few faded drawings hanging. Books lined up on a shelf. A guitar leaning in the corner—there was no dust on it—it had been played recently. An old curtain on the window, a faded denim jacket hanging on a nail. And the smell of the bed… you knew that smell. Somewhere deep inside, your skin remembered it.

But still… you couldn’t name it yet.

Everything was still watching you like a shadow.

Sitting up in bed felt like trying to pull a bullet fragment lodged deep inside your body. Every muscle, every fiber, every breath burned like an open wound. Your chest was tight, a dull pressure in your abdomen. Your left arm had gone numb, and the throbbing in your right leg could still be felt beneath the bandages.

As you struggled to sit up, Ellie instinctively moved forward, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, careful to make her touch guiding, not forceful.

“Hey… slow down. Your stitches are still fresh. It’s gonna hurt if you move too much,” she said, eyes serious, her voice a warning.

You pressed your fingertips against the sheet, gritting your teeth as you pulled yourself up. Your head spun, your vision briefly darkened, but you gathered your will. By the time your back rested against the pillow, you were breathless. Heat trickled down the back of your neck, mingling with the sweat at your hairline.

Your eyes turned to Ellie. Questioning, cautious, maybe even a little… suspicious.

“He brought me here… didn’t he?” Your voice was hoarse and cracked, your throat still dry, but the words came out clear.

Ellie averted her gaze for a second. She fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket. That small, almost invisible hesitation told you a lot. The girl was careful. Every word she spoke was weighed in her mind before it left her mouth.

“Which ‘he’?” she asked, her voice casual, but tension simmered underneath. She didn’t lean toward you or move from her spot. Not defensive, more like she was giving you space.

“The man I ran into… out there,” you said. “The stranger.” You didn’t look away. “The one who lifted me onto the horse… and saved me.”

Ellie frowned. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, then she turned her eyes to the window. A cold-lit morning lay outside; heavy clouds, wind gently stirring the curtains.

“He’s in a meeting,” she finally said. There was no mistaking the certainty in her voice. “About the new infected types. They’re discussing the signals from Northpoint.”

Your heart suddenly started to beat faster. Northpoint.

That place… hazy, silent, full of death. Its walls cracked, machines broken. The hum that echoed through the quiet. Your desperate attempts to repair that cursed network to send a signal to Jackson. And then… your call for help. And his arrival.

“In a meeting, huh,” you said quietly.

Ellie nodded, turning her eyes back to you.

“I looked into Northpoint. Everyone’s talking about it. They said the systems were dead, but you got some of them working again. You established communication… even if briefly. That’s something most people here couldn’t manage right now.”

She paused. There was a strange expression on her face—somewhere between admiration and cautious distance. “Fixing things like that. Surviving that long. Alone. Even Maria was impressed.”

You were still listening, but something else echoed in your mind. A background noise behind her words, like the static of a broken recording bleeding into your thoughts.

Joel.

His name still hadn’t passed from Ellie’s lips. But an image suddenly formed in your mind. About six months ago. You’d just set out. Winter hadn’t fully set in, but the nights were already freezing. While traveling a rocky path, you’d stumbled across an abandoned gas station. You’d found a rusted map. Thick and faded. Marked with hand-written notes—arrows, lines, scribbles.

A name was written there. You still remembered. “Joel & Ellie.”

You still carried that map. It had been soaked in rain, the edges frayed, but you never threw it away. Back then, the names had seemed ordinary. But now…

Your heart skipped a beat. Your eyes turned back to Ellie. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You felt something crack open in your chest. Deep and sharp suspicion.

Every detail in the room—the guitar on the wall, the bookshelves, the scent in the air, even Ellie’s voice… there was an answer hidden in all of it. But you couldn’t name it. Not yet.

Ellie noticed your gaze but said nothing. Instead, she refilled your glass from the pitcher. The glass had a crack, but her hand didn’t tremble.

“Keep drinking,” she said. “You need to rest.”

But you were no longer focused on the glass. You were locked in your memories. And something in your chest was slowly beginning to awaken.

The room fell silent once more. Only the sound of the distant wind brushing against the windows scratched at your insides like a cold thorn. As Ellie set the pitcher back down, you were still silent. She tilted her head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her pants.

She was just about to leave the room when your voice held her back.

“What was your name?”

Ellie stopped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if frozen mid-motion. You could see from the movement in her shoulders that she was preparing an answer. Slowly, she turned to look at you, her eyes a deep brown and her expression cautious.

“Ellie.”

You only nodded. But she looked directly into your eyes. For too long. There was something in it. Not absentmindedness—scrutiny.

Ellie narrowed her gaze.

“That’s the second time i’ve told you that. Why?” she asked. Her voice sounded soft, but the tension in her tone was obvious. “I mean… have we met before? Or…” Her eyes squinted for a moment. “Are you from FEDRA?”

Your face remained expressionless. No confirmation, no lie. Just that empty, yet meaning-laden stare. Ellie’s pupils shifted with unease as she received no answer. It was clear she now felt like a threat hovered just under her nose.

She quickly dropped her hands to her sides, then took a step back. It was obvious she was trying to change the subject.

“I mean… you’re probably hungry,” she said quickly. “You haven’t eaten in two days. I’ll… I’ll make you a sandwich. Just wait here, okay?”

Still, you said nothing. Ellie was clearly unnerved by your silence. As she turned and hurried out of the room, she seemed almost swept away like a gust of wind behind her. The door clicked shut. Her footsteps faded down the stairs.

At that moment, alone in the room, the silence was no longer just emptiness—it was weight. Even the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling looked menacing. The wind slipped in through a cracked corner of the glass, lifting the edge of the curtain slightly.

This place... this was someone else's life. Not yours. And slowly, a cold suspicion began to crawl through your veins. Your breath quickened. You looked at the pillow, the blanket, the bookshelf on the wall. All of it… had a masculine order to it. Clean, but slightly messy. Old books on the shelves, a broken guitar string, a charm made of dried pine branches. Flannel shirts hung behind the door. Most of them were large. One had a loose thread dangling from a missing button on the collar.

Ellie’s face replayed in your mind. Her tension, her panicked exit. The sandwich excuse—it was almost childlike. And once you realized that, you couldn’t stay seated any longer. No matter how tired, how broken, how wounded you were...

...you had to get up.

You pushed off the blanket with your hands. Your skin prickled. When your toes touched the cold floor, it felt like stepping onto a frozen river. Your breath was uneven. You clenched your teeth. As you rose, the stitches in your chest throbbed, but you didn’t care. You would endure.

As Ellie’s footsteps faded away, the silence inside deepened. You were alone now.

But this solitude wasn’t peaceful. Like a growing ache in your chest, a feeling inside you wouldn’t settle: You were in the wrong place. And looking for the right person.

You glanced around once more. The blanket still lay tangled around your knees. With the sting of the stitches on your body, you pushed yourself upright from the bed. For a few seconds, your balance faltered, but you managed to stand by pressing your hands against the edge of the mattress. Your head throbbed, your vision still blurry. But your mind—your mind was clear.

The watch.

You remembered suddenly.

The one thing keeping every ounce of anger and every trace of vengeance alive in your veins.

The watch found next to your father’s body.

With the killer’s initials carved into its back—your most tangible memory that even time couldn’t erase. Without it... you might forget why you were fighting.

Panic set in as you turned your head. You looked under the bed—nothing. You reached into the small drawer of the bedside table. Empty. You slammed it shut.

Your bag. Where was your bag?

After a quick scan, your eyes landed on the torn backpack resting on the chair in the corner of the room. You moved toward it with hurried steps—despite the pain of your wounds. Your hands trembled as you unzipped it. You looked inside.

Maps... an unfinished notebook... a few bandages... but...

No watch.

A wave of cold fear washed over you. You hadn’t left it behind. You always kept it in the innermost pocket.

It couldn’t have been stolen.

Maybe...

No.

Then your eyes caught the drawer of the small desk in the corner. It sat half-open beside the chair. You moved toward it. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t stop.

When you opened the drawer, the first things you saw were a few crumpled papers. Notes. Scattered scribbles. Faded words. But beneath them was a stack of paper that caught your attention. Lines written in shaky handwriting had been pressed into the pages. As your eyes began to grasp the words, something inside you shifted. Your pulse quickened. You carefully flattened the paper with your hand.

These... these were song lyrics.

But not like the kind you’d seen before. They weren’t random.

As if between the sentences... you found yourself.

“I saved a woman—maybe

she was already lost when I did.

She asked me for direction,

but the path... the path was me.

Her eyes left, but my heart stayed with her.

And now whenever the night comes...

I’m bleeding in a dream shaped by her voice.

But you know me now.

So... say something.”

Your knees nearly gave out at the first line.

Your eyes were locked on the paper. You turned to the next page.

“There’s a place in my nights—

filled only with the sound of that woman’s voice.

Even when she pointed her gun at me,

there was warmth in her hands.

Loneliness,

sometimes fades with the breath of a stranger.

I saved you.

But really, you killed me.”

The song wasn’t finished.

Some sentences were cut short. Letters scratched out. Notes written over them.

“Will tomorrow birth revenge from this night, or a bond built upon regret?”

Your throat tightened.

The air in the entire room seemed to grow heavier.

It became hard to breathe.

Your eyes lifted from the paper.

You read the word again.

"I saved you.

But really, you killed me."

As your heart echoed within your chest, you felt this line was kin to your blood. The words were no longer just ink—they were a projection of a past that echoed inside you, of broken hopes and a face you still couldn’t decipher.

"Even when she pointed her gun at me..."

Your eyes froze on the line. Something inside you snapped. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A sentence this accurate, this familiar, could only be written through witness. But... you had never pointed a gun at that man. Not before. Not yet. And still… it was as if the words said one day you would, and he knew it.

There was only one question echoing in your mind:

“Did he write these?”

The stranger must have brought you to this house, right? It was his house. And she — the girl with Joel Miller, Ellie—was assigned to look after you.

Suddenly, it felt like the air around you had gone cold. A quiet unease spread through the room. And just then—

The door opened.

You flinched instantly, gripping the papers reflexively to keep from dropping them. Your heart had leapt to your throat. Your fingers trembled. Your breath caught in your chest like fractured glass.

The first to step in was Ellie, holding a plate. Her expression was tense. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw you standing, the papers from the drawer still in your hand.

"What are you doing?!" she asked, voice sharp with worry. "You shouldn’t be up. You barely started walking again."

Your eyes shifted past her shoulder.

And he was there.

Standing at the threshold.

That familiar face. Harsh features. Shadows hanging beneath his eyes like the weight of years of guilt carved into skin. And yet... his eyes were soft. The man you loved was looking at you with love.

Your hands trembled as you looked at him. You tried to speak, but the words stuck in your throat. You couldn’t describe what you felt. You were grateful to be alive, and yet… you were in the middle of a swamp. And every step was pulling you deeper.

Ellie turned to him as she realized he’d entered. Her brows were furrowed. "She’s up... I told her she needed rest."

Joel Miller knew the secrets would come to light one day—he just never thought they'd be so eager, while you were still limping through the aftermath.

Joel gave her a small nod. His gaze didn’t just fall on Ellie—it carried a weight as it passed over to you. He was calm. What he was thinking was impossible to read.

"Thanks for watching her, Ellie," he said. His voice was firm. But beneath it, something else lingered. A message: leave.

Ellie’s shoulders tensed slightly. She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to walk out that door. Her eyes moved back to you. Then to Joel. But Joel didn’t look away. It was like a silent message passed between them. About danger. About trust.

Finally, Ellie sighed. "Sandwich..." she said, setting the plate on the nightstand. "So she won’t go hungry."

Then she turned back. And as she stepped out the door, she cast one last glance back. As if it might be the last time she saw you.

And silence fell.

You were alone now.

Joel studied you for a few seconds. He’d noticed the papers in your hand—the ones from the drawer. His eyes drifted there, but he didn’t ask you anything directly.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t move. Your body and your mind were fighting the same war. The words in your hand, the man before you, Ellie’s strange silence…

You slowly placed the papers on the table. Your fingers were still trembling, but you made no sound. The weight of the moment was carried entirely by the silence. It felt like the air in the room had thickened, time sinking beneath your steps. You didn’t take your eyes off him.

And then… you started walking.

Unsteady, but resolute. Quiet, but stormy.

Your steps echoed across the wooden floor until you stood right in front of Joel.

Only a few inches separated you. And when you looked into his eyes, you saw the weight of years—pain, loss, and exhaustion. But you also saw something else… familiarity. As if… you’d been here before. As if his gaze had been calling you for years.

Joel parted his lips to speak. But that word… that first word… never made it out.

Because you spoke first. And your voice rose not from your throat, but from deep inside, from your soul.

“Have you ever heard of Redhill?”

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But that name, that familiar syllable, caused a flicker behind his eyes. He understood. But he didn’t speak. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He was waiting.

“It used to be a home,” you said. “It had walls. It had my father. And his faith… it kept me alive. He believed it was still possible to trust people. To build something with them.”

Your eyes filled with tears, but not a single drop fell.

“Then… that day came. Fire fell from the sky. Bullets rained. Screams, gunfire, blood… everything blurred together. And I… that day… as I carried my father’s lifeless body, I made a vow.”

Your voice cracked. But your words were heavy, steady, and sharp.

“I’d find the man who killed him. And I’d kill him. No matter what it cost.”

Joel was still looking at you. But the edges of his eyes had quivered just a fraction. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe it was his heart. But you saw it.

“A year and a half. I walked alone for a year and a half. Maps, abandoned roads, shadows… until… I saw you.”

This time, Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. He let out a breath without realizing it. But he still didn’t speak. He only listened.

There was a quiet waiting in his eyes. And a fear.

“You were a stranger,” you said. “And something inside me shattered the moment I saw you. I didn’t understand it. Because… I loved you. Beyond revenge, beyond hate… in that moment, I loved you.

And that feeling… it started to ruin everything.”

Your hands were clenched by your sides. Your eyes glistened with tears, but your voice… your voice didn’t waver anymore.

“As I loved you, I forgot my purpose. But there was something I never let go of… something that kept me tied to my past. I always had it with me. That watch. The watch of my father’s killer. It was always with me. When I slept, when I walked, when I fought. The only thing that reminded me why I was still alive.”

You studied Joel’s face carefully. And in that moment… a tiny muscle moved in his jaw. As if time shifted once more. But still… he remained silent.

“In this room… I looked for it. But it’s gone. Please, tell me I didn’t lose it. Tell me I didn’t lose my watch.”

Joel didn’t speak for a long time. It was as if the room had stopped breathing. Time had lodged itself in your chest like a bullet. It couldn’t move forward, couldn’t turn back. It could only wait. You were both inside a silent apocalypse.

Then... very slowly, Joel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a small, careful movement. As if he were carrying a grenade. His fingers, moved by a familiar habit, found it. And he pulled it out. That old, worn wristwatch — its scratches telling the story of the past.

It carried the weight of time. And now... something else too.

He held it in his palm for a while. His fingers brushed the surface, as if uncertain. But then... he took a step. Then another. Closing the space between you.

You held your breath, standing still.

One of your hands was clenched into a fist. Your heart... your heart was pounding wildly.

Joel let out a slow, trembling breath.

Then, with his fingertips, he turned the back of the watch.

Without ever looking away from you, he held it out.

But before... before he called you to take it, he showed you the two letters.

A faint engraving.

Not faded with time — on the contrary, deepened by it: J.M.

Those letters… and the truth you’d been chasing for years.

Joel still held the watch in his hand. His eyes were lost in shadow, but his voice… his voice came like an echo from the past. Deep. The voice of a fallen man.

“I remember that day… The watch had stopped. But I never took it off. Even if it couldn’t tell time anymore… it was the only promise I made after my daughter was gone. Not to forget.”

Joel’s voice held no anger, no defense. But he didn’t try to hide what was inside him. That sentence… was the gravestone he carried on his back.

In that moment… the world lost its sound. But the words crashed off the walls. Echoed in your head. The watch had stopped. But your time was only now beginning.

Your eyes widened. Your heartbeat changed. In that moment, all the pieces in your mind came together: Redhill, the promise you made your father, the single name echoing through the silence… And it slipped from your lips like a whisper: “It’s you.”

You took a step toward him. With everything burning in your eyes: “Joel Miller.”

And the past pierced the chest of the future.

In that moment, you couldn’t control your breath, nor the familiar rage that began to burn inside your eyes.

You locked your gaze on Joel’s. But what filled your eyes now wasn’t just the silence of the man you knew — it was someone else. A silhouette of a past stained with blood, ashes, and curses. In that moment, those eyes didn’t belong only to Joel. Behind those eyes were the ashes of Redhill. Behind those eyes lay your father, a single bullet in his head, lying on his back.

“You…” you began, your voice hoarse, tangled with breath. On your face was not just disappointment; there was the sharpness of betrayal. “You knew. All along. Who I was.” That last word felt like it scratched your throat.

Joel said nothing. He neither denied nor confirmed. His gaze fell to your hands — you were still holding the watch.

“You did it on purpose,” you said, stepping forward. “When you found me, when you saw who I was… you knew. And you said nothing. Why? Tell me, why?!” What came out of you wasn’t just pain; it was a cry made at the edge of a grave buried deep inside. “You made me fall in love with you,” you whispered. Your eyes were filled, but the tears didn’t fall. If they fell, you’d fall apart. If they fell, your rage would turn to helplessness. “You lied! You stayed silent. You hid your identity. And I…” You pointed to your chest. “I carried this every day, every night… this watch, this memory, this dead man! You… you stole them all from me!”

“You’re heartless.” The words slipped through your clenched teeth. You were so close now, you could feel Joel’s breath.

Joel lowered his head. As if trying to push the last word stuck inside him through his throat. From between his pale, cracked lips, a quiet “Y/N” escaped, but it didn’t echo in the room. Because the only thing cutting through the silence now was the roar of the emotions exploding inside.

“I never lied,” he said at last. His voice was heavy. So heavy, it was as if the words had given in to gravity. “I just… couldn’t tell the truth.” He looked up. The lines around his eyes looked deeper now. He was tired. But this tiredness wasn’t physical. It was the sorrow of a man who, after losing too much, believed he didn’t even deserve to live.

“I owed you a life,” he said, stepping forward. “But part of that life had already been taken from you. I couldn’t give it back. What was I supposed to do?” He paused, then continued with pain in his voice, “I didn’t tell you my name. I warned you. Again and again. I told you I wasn’t right for you. I did everything to keep you away. But… God knows… I couldn’t stay away from you.”

There was a tremble in his face now. His eyelids were quivering. His breath came in short bursts. He swallowed hard. It was as if another Joel had emerged from within him. Not the one Ellie knew — this was the man who hadn’t opened his heart to anyone since Sarah, and when he did, it shattered everything.

“I didn’t want you because I love you,” he said. “Because loving you… was hell. Loving you was like staring into the face of every person I ever killed. In your eyes… they all died again.” His voice cracked. For the first time, his eyes filled with tears. “I wish we’d met in another way.” His shoulders sank. “I wish this path… wasn’t so damn cursed.”

The air had grown cold. The house was silent. In the silence, the only thing echoing was a broken breath—like the outcry of a scream held back. In that moment, time neither moved forward nor stayed in the past.

Your fingers trembled; it was unclear whether from anger, the cold, or the weight in your chest you could no longer bear. Your eyes were locked on Joel Miller—not as a man, but as a ghost. He was the embodiment of a shadow hidden among memories, now returned in flesh and blood.

Your throat was dry; the words burned as they left your lips.

“I… I set out on this path to kill you, Joel Miller. Not just for my father… but for Redhill. The curse of all of them settled on my shoulders like a burden. At the end of this road, I was supposed to shoot you!”

Your voice cracked. Your eyes filled, but no tears fell; hatred was a feeling that didn’t allow tears.

“But do you know what happened? I fell in love with the man I swore to kill! In this damned world, I loved you! How could… how could it be like this?! This isn’t how I imagined this scene. This confrontation. This truth.”

You gripped your hair with your hands, turned away as you tried to control your breath, but looked at him again.

“I hate myself. For loving a man like you… I want to die!”

With those words, it was as if the silence cracked in the room. The only sound was the faint creak of a footstep on the wooden floor. Joel, without saying a single word, slowly reached for his waist. His hand found a gleaming piece of metal. He let out a deep, weary breath.

SIG P226: A semi-automatic pistol favored by federal agents and some military units—reliable, trusted. Joel always trusted this weapon. It never let him down. Aged, but loyal. Just like him.

In the silence, the sound of the mechanism pulling back echoed like a chilling whisper: “CLICK.” But it wasn’t the sound of death—it was the sound of surrender.

Joel raised the gun to his chest. But now, its loyalty had changed.

He turned the pistol and held it out to you, slowly, deliberately. The grip—marked with his fingerprints—faced you. The muzzle pointed downward. His fingers were ready to let go. His eyes, bound to the past.

“Take it,” Joel said. His voice was dry, hoarse, but steady. “I’m right here. Do whatever you have to do. Give me what I deserve… let your finger be on the trigger.”

You stared at the gun as if frozen. Your hand hovered in the air for several seconds. Your breathing grew erratic.

When you held the weapon, its coldness spread from your fingertips to your heart. With trembling hands, you reached for the trigger, but what you were really touching was his fate—or maybe your own. In that moment, time stopped; neither the weight of the past nor the possibility of the future remained. Only you, him, and the decision in your hands.

He was looking at you. Without saying a word. He offered no defense, no apology. In his eyes, there was only a quiet acceptance—as if he had long been waiting for this moment, as if every sleepless night had prepared him for this.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t want to. Because you were supposed to hate him. Because once, you had sworn. That you would kill him. When you stared at your father’s lifeless body in the ruined streets of Redhill, when the hopes of your people were crushed underfoot, when you set out on this journey whispering his name… it had all started that day. And it was all… supposed to end today.

But everything had changed, hadn’t it?

That stranger was no longer a stranger. The fury you carried in your heart had been pierced by the nights you’d shared with him.

You applied pressure to the trigger. Just a little… just a click. But your finger couldn’t go further. Because his face didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He had surrendered himself to you.

“Do it,” said his eyes. “Do what must be done.”

You couldn’t do it.

You lowered the gun.

Your arm trembled. Your shoulder dropped.

Tears slid down your cheeks, but you didn’t say a word.

Slowly, you sank to your knees. You placed the gun on the ground with care.

The sound… that metallic clatter… hit your ears heavier than bullets.

You rose to your feet.

Joel stayed silent for a long time.

The gun was still on the floor.

His old leather jacket rustled faintly; even the dried bloodstains were just shadows now.

He looked into your eyes—only your eyes.

Then, suddenly, his voice cracked with an unexpected tone.

“Why didn’t you?”

It was such a simple, bare question… there was nowhere left to run from it.

“You should’ve killed me,” he said again, his eyes locked with yours.

“You were so close… pulling the trigger was just a second.

And… I deserve it.”

You didn’t move.

Your hands were clenched into fists, but they weren’t shaking anymore.

It was like you had shed all hatred, all rage.

Only silence remained.

Then your voice, breaking in a whisper-like confession, came out:

“Because I… already knew.”

Joel furrowed his brow, tilting his head slightly.

You kept talking, your voice layered with depth.

“When we were in Northpoint… when I was close to repairing the device. I made contact with Jackson. Someone named Tommy answered. He asked, ‘Is Joel Miller with you?’ The words were hard to catch through the static. But I ignored it, wanted to think I was being paranoid. Tried to convince myself I’d misheard.”

Your voice cracked again, but there was no stopping now.

“I knew. For days… maybe weeks… I knew.”

Your eyes locked onto Joel’s.

There was no fear left in your gaze, no denial.

Only the raw truth—like an open wound, still bleeding.

“I forgot the promise I made my father. I opened my heart to the man I was supposed to hate. And now, I have neither revenge… nor peace. Only a love cursed—born from the ashes of everything it burned.”

You cried for the first time. But quietly. “I thought you betrayed me. But I’m the one who betrayed. My father’s grave. My people. Justice… Myself.”

Joel stood frozen where he was, your words echoing around him like ghosts.

He couldn’t run. Couldn’t turn back.

Your voice still echoed in his ears—that voice which had once been the only light in his darkness.

But now, that light was setting itself ablaze before his very eyes. That strong, ever-composed face of his…

It looked too tired to carry its secrets anymore.

His eyes were full—but no tears fell.

Joel Miller had stopped crying the day Sarah’s body grew heavy in his arms. And now, maybe for the first time since then, he’d been struck in that same place again.

Perhaps that’s why he stayed silent.

Because words… never bring anything back.

But in that silence, there was a scream.

A scream of a man who wanted to reach for you, but had no right to touch.

Joel Miller had survived death.

But not you.

Not the shattered light in your eyes.

And in that moment, he knew one thing for certain: Love doesn’t always heal.

Sometimes the greatest hell is looking into the eyes of the woman who still loves you.

He slowly straightened up.

Took a step forward.

Then stopped.

And in a hollow voice, he asked only one thing:

“So what happens now?”

That night, you made the decision that changed your life. And maybe you'll never know... whether you did the right thing, or made the biggest mistake of all.

When you straightened your back, your body still ached. The pain beneath your ribs was a sharp reminder of wounds that hadn’t quite healed—but even that pain was nothing compared to the wound in your soul, much deeper, much sharper.

As your knees trembled, your eyes locked on Joel. He was still there. Silent, wounded, and regretful. But a very different war raged inside your heart.

There was a moment of silence. Then you spoke.

"I'm leaving," you said. Your voice was calm, but filled with ashes. "I can’t wake up every morning and share the same sky with you."

Your words hung in the air like a blade. Joel didn’t say a word.

You took a step. You staggered slightly, but gathered yourself. Your gaze still fixed on him. And as you spoke your final words, it was as if you were carving them into your own tombstone:

"Joel, because the more I forgive you... the more I hate myself."

When your words ended, everything seemed to stop. You’d come to understand that a love soaked in blood and betrayal couldn’t be silenced. You weren’t angry at Joel anymore—you were angry at yourself. You realized you couldn’t carry this weight.

And Joel—he didn’t fall apart when he first heard your words… but when he first felt what they meant, his knees gave out.

When you said you were leaving, your voice didn’t even sound like your own. It was foreign, cold, determined. Love had turned you into a stranger. And there was no forgiveness left—not for Joel, not for yourself.

Joel didn’t speak at first. As if every word might drive you further away. But when you turned your back and took a step, he moved. His fingers, strong but trembling, gripped your shoulders. He still had strength—but it wasn’t to hurt you anymore. It was to keep you from leaving.

"You can’t go," he said, his voice torn like a prayer. "Not like this… not in this state… you won’t survive out there alone. You’ll die, Y/N."

But you lowered your head slightly. Your eyes weren’t on Joel—they were fixed on your past.

"Maybe… I should," you said. But it wasn’t defiance. It was a sentence. Accepted. Your fate. And when Joel understood that, he lost his breath. "I think I deserve this," you said. "Redhill... needs me, yes. But if I return with this stain inside me, I’ll be neither leader nor daughter. So maybe… this is how it ends. In the middle of the road. Quietly."

Joel stepped closer, his hands still on your shoulders. But this time, they were a refuge.

"I did something to you, yes," he said. "I hurt people. I’ve been doing it for a long time. You know who I am now. But there’s one thing I need you to understand…"

He paused. His eyes pierced into yours. As tired as the dead, as hopeless as a prisoner.

"Along the way… watching you… each night by the fire, when you turned your back and couldn’t sleep, when you woke up from your nightmares… my heart was always in your hands."

You stayed silent. Maybe you heard him. Maybe you didn’t. But Joel wasn’t expecting an answer anymore. This wasn’t a confession. It was a moment of punishment.

"Y/N…" he said softly, his voice the final hope of a man breaking apart. "I loved you. I still do. But no matter what you do, you’re right. I broke you. What I did to your father… to myself… I’ve already sentenced myself. Every day, every hour, every breath…"

You shook your head slowly, still locking eyes with him.

"It wasn’t just you, Joel," you said, your voice cracked. "I betrayed too. Before my father’s blood even dried… I loved you. And that’s the one thing I can’t forgive."

Joel’s eyes widened. Because for the first time, the guilt that once crushed only him had now begun to bury you too.

"When I made contact with Jackson… when I was in Northpoint… I found out who you were," you continued. "But I couldn’t say it. Because saying it… meant losing you. And losing you… meant losing everything."

Your lips trembled. Joel tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. In that moment, his hands fell. Because you weren’t holding him anymore. You had chosen to walk into your own hell.

As you slowly turned your back, Joel’s eyes clung to you. You were leaving. Taking your heart with you. And leaving him alone. Just like how it all began. In silence. Without gunshots. But with a far deadlier pain.

Joel was still there. Standing. Wounded. His blood-covered hands were still holding you—as if letting go would send you plummeting off a cliff, or worse, he would lose everything. There was an unusual panic in his eyes. Joel Miller, always so cold-blooded before killing a man, had now lost that calm. Had he ever been this afraid in a war? He didn’t know. But the thought of losing you… that weighed heavier than any hell he had ever endured.

"Y/N..." he said again. His voice was hoarse, torn from his throat. "Don’t leave me now. No matter what... we’ve come all this way together. Don’t say it’s over. Please... we can find another way."

"Joel, it’s over," you said. Your voice didn’t tremble. "This path... it only leads to a grave."

Joel staggered. As if your words had punched him in the gut. His eyes lingered on you. His lips moved but no words came out. He stepped forward again, maybe ready to fall to his knees and beg. That would’ve been a sacred fall for Joel Miller. And he could only do it for you.

"I’ll do whatever you want," he said. "If you’re going back to Redhill… we’ll go together. I won’t pretend nothing happened, but… I can’t stay away from you. I thought I had a future with you. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s madness. But..."

You didn’t look at him. You slowly reached for your backpack. You weren’t ready, not really. Your wounds were still bleeding, your bones still begged for rest—but staying meant not healing. It meant rotting deeper. Joel’s voice echoed behind you, but it had already turned into a memory. Your fingers were cold, like every vein inside you. Your eyes locked on a single point. You had to repeat to yourself that it was over. Otherwise, you’d take it all back.

You turned around one last time. Your eyes met. Joel wasn’t begging anymore. He was just standing there, stripped bare in loneliness. His lips quivered, but the tremble didn’t come from cold—it came from the loss gnawing at him. Something had broken in the depth of his gaze.

"I need to pack," you said.

Joel remained silent. As if even that line gave him hope. He looked at you like he was thinking, So you're not leaving right away. But that was what Joel Miller never understood: the journey had already begun in your heart. Goodbyes don’t start at the door—they begin when something inside finally lets go.

And in that moment—maybe he would speak again, maybe take another step—but you beat him to it. You slowly walked forward, standing directly in front of him. Your body was tired, your eyes as dark as the night. As his hand reached for your shoulder, you suddenly pushed against his chest. He stumbled back toward the door. For a second, he didn’t understand what was happening. But then his back hit the doorframe, and reality returned.

"Y/N—"

The door shut. Loud. Heavy.

He heard the turn of the lock. That sound hit sharper than a gunshot. His hands no longer trembled. The decision had been made.

Joel stood frozen before the door. The silence inside was louder than the wind outside. His palms curled into fists. He didn’t knock. Because he knew now: it wasn’t the door that had closed—an entire lifetime had.

And you, inside, were breathing. Slow. Heavy. You’d probably start packing a bag. Take some bandages. A little food. But most importantly: you’d leave your heart behind that door. It had grown too heavy to carry any longer.

This time, he didn’t want you to die. But he no longer had the courage to stop you. And maybe this time… it really was the end.

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iloveladybuglucy · 4 months ago

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To be his strongest, people have to be afraid—does he want people to be scared? Or worse...does he need them to be?

introducing my first invincible oc! Caelum is a nursing student at Upstate University who works as a part-time paramedic and becomes the eventual boyfriend/husband of Atom Eve in my au :)

ref sheet and character bio under the cut

Hero Name: Reverie (pron. rev-uh-ree, a state of being lost in one's thoughts, a daydream, or a dreamlike trance)

True Identity: Caelum Somner (meaning "sky" and "sleep")

Origin of his Powers:

As a medic who had witnessed countless gruesome, untimely deaths and mass murders, Caelum began to feel the effects of everything weigh heavily on him. While doom scrolling through Reddit, he came across a post looking for volunteers willling to try out a cutting-edge neurological experiment meant to help people with PTSD, anxiety, or coma recovery. The experiment involved neural stimulants and exposure to dream-state frequencies, aided by the government. Caelum, desperate for an escape from his own head, decided to reach out and agreed to do the procedure. However, the experiment was botched and his brain was permanently altered; now he can sense emotions, enter dreams, and manipulate fear.

Powers:

Emotional Manipulation & Empathy Aura

Can sense and absorb emotions, particularly fear and anxiety, which make him stronger.

His Empathy Aura can be used for calming others, reducing panic, and easing pain, making him an excellent medic.

Dream Walking & Fear Manifestation

Can enter people's dreams and explore their subconscious fears and desires.

In combat, he can trap enemies in a nightmare-like illusion, forcing them to confront their fears.

The more terrified the opponent, the stronger he becomes.

Terror-fueled Strength & Reflexes

Gains temporary enhancements (speed, agility, durability) when absorbing strong fear or anxiety.

Weaknesses & Limits:

Emotional Dependence

If his opponent is fearless, rational, or emotionally numb, his power weakens.

Can be overwhelmed by chaotic or conflicting emotions, making him vulnerable.

Dream Walking Drawbacks

Entering someone’s mind leaves his real body vulnerable.

Some strong-willed individuals can resist or manipulate the dream space against him.

Empathy Overload

If exposed to too many intense emotions at once (like a disaster scene), he can experience emotional burnout, making him ineffective.

Requires Fear to Get Stronger

Against an opponent with a calm, strategic mind, he can’t gain any boosts, forcing him to rely on his physical combat skills.

Personality:

Calm & Introspective: Caelum is naturally reserved, preferring to think before he acts. He’s methodical and observant, which makes him a great medic but sometimes slow to trust others.

Cynical but Caring: His experiences as a medic and exposure to constant suffering have made him skeptical of the world, yet he still feels deeply responsible for others. He doesn’t always believe in hope, but he acts because he wants to be the hope people need.

Dry Sense of Humor: He uses humor as a coping mechanism, often making sarcastic or dark jokes. It helps him detach from the horrors he sees daily.

Loyal but Guarded: He will fight for those he cares about, but letting people in is a different story. Trust doesn’t come easily to him.

Flaws & Internal Struggles

Emotional Burnout & Detachment – Caelum deals with so much emotional distress from others that he struggles with his own emotions. He might not even realize when he’s suppressing things until they bubble over in unhealthy ways.

Fear of Losing Control – The stronger he gets, the more he fears what prolonged exposure to terror might do to him. Could he lose himself in the emotions of others? Could he become addicted to fear?

Struggles with Optimism – He admires Eve’s idealism but finds it frustrating. In his eyes, the world is cruel, and thinking otherwise is naive. This could be a point of conflict between them.

Sleeplessness & Overworking – Since his powers weaken with exhaustion, he constantly pushes himself to the brink, unwilling to rest even when he needs it. His body and mind often suffer as a result.

Dependency on Others’ Fear – A terrifying realization for him is that in order to be his strongest, people have to be afraid. This creates a moral dilemma—does he want people to be scared? Does he need them to be?

Relationship with Eve:

Caelum is calm, introspective, and a deep thinker—opposite to Eve’s more emotional and idealistic nature. While Eve often feels conflicted about her powers and their impact on others, Caelum is able to show her that even in the face of difficult decisions, there are always other perspectives to consider. His quiet demeanor and rational thinking can help her make clearer choices without the burden of too much stress.

Their relationship is balanced—Eve helps Caelum tap into his emotional side and push beyond the logical, while he helps Eve regain a sense of grounding when she gets too idealistic or overconfident in her powers. Their differences complement each other—Eve is emotional, driven by ideals, while Caelum is rational and grounded. She helps him see that it isn't stupid or pointless to have hope, while he keeps her from overextending herself.

Caelum often struggles with Eve’s desire to “fix” things with her powers, as he believes not everything can (or should) be fixed. On the flip side, Eve finds his cynicism exhausting.

#invincible #invincible fanart #invincible show #invincible comic #invincible oc #original character #invincible original character #oc x canon #invincible atom eve #atom eve #samantha eve wilkins

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hamburgerndsprite · 1 month ago

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SPRITE'S BTS FICS MASTERLIST

♡ “Welcome to the fic garden—where love blooms, logic dies, and delulu thrives.” ♡

🌸✨ Hiiii and welcome to my little fic corner! ✨🌸

Hi there, lovely souls!

I’ve just started sharing my stories, and it means the absolute world to me that you’re here. These fics are little pieces of my heart—born from sleepless nights, stolen daydreams, and a slightly unhinged love for fictional chaos and comfort. I’m still learning and growing as a writer, but I hope you find something here that makes you smile, scream, sob… or ideally, all three at once.

🫧 Please be kind:

All fics and moodboards on this blog are created by me unless stated otherwise.

✧ No translations, or copying, please.

✧ Feel free to like, comment, or reblog and spread the love

✧ Respect the effort, and let the stories stay where they were born—with all the love and mess in place 🤍

And this is all pure fiction—no real-person shipping here. Names & visuals are just for ✧vibes✧

🌟 Also!

I adore fics as much as I write them—and I’ve left a little treasure chest of masterful works by other amazing writers below. Please check them out, shower them in love, and let them know how incredible they are ✨

[BTS FIC RECS]

Thank you for stopping by. You’re always welcome here—bring your tea, your emotions, and your love for beautiful messes. Let’s get lost in stories together 💌

With all my heart,

Makaira 🌸

➳ TEMPTATION ON TRIAL

• Pairing: Actor! Kim Seokjin x Criminal Lawyer! OC • Genre: Courtroom Chaos · Crack with Consequences · Enemies to Lovers · Legal Romance · Slow Burn & Subpoenas · Found Family but Make It Unhinged • Status: Ongoing • Synopsis: When South Korea’s most beloved actor, Kim Seokjin, gets hit with a totally fake sexual harassment accusation, suddenly everyone forgets he’s basically a national treasure. His perfect rep? Shattered. The media? Devouring the drama like it’s the finale of a K-drama. And the courtroom? His wildest, “what even is life?” stage yet. Enter Aria Sterling: a defense lawyer with razor-sharp wit and heels sharper than her cross-examinations, who has exactly zero patience for Jin—who, by the way, can’t stand her either. Thrown together like mismatched socks in a hurricane, Aria and Jin must team up to tear the case apart… while trying not to murder each other or accidentally stumble into the “kiss until it’s way too awkward” zone. With buried secrets, explosive drama, and enough corruption to make a soap opera jealous, this story is less courtroom thriller and more wildly chaotic, unhinged mess—where the real trial is surviving each other.

➳ STUPID CUPIDS: BABY EDITION

✧ Pairing: Baby Cupid! Jimin x Baby Cupid! OC ✧ Genre: dumbass celestial romcom • divine sabotage • gay panic • healing with glitter • emotionally repressed idiots • Crack au • Enemies-to-Lovers • Fantasy AU • Whimsical Chaos • Romance ✧ Word Count: 16k+ of glitter-fueled war crimes ✧ Synopsis: Two baby Cupids get slapped with divine probation, a cursed mission scroll, and absolutely no adult supervision (except one extremely tired supervisor who might sue them for emotional damage). Now they’re stuck doing “healing-centric” love missions, which is unfortunate, because they’re both dangerously underqualified, emotionally repressed, and 100% allergic to subtlety. They’re not stable, they’re not certified, and they’re definitely not falling in love with each other, shut up. Featuring: 💘 reckless divine interference ✨ unlicensed emotional healing 📜 cursed bureaucracy ☕️ One supervisor who did not sign up for this This fic is 70% screaming, 20% feelings, and 10% enchanted muffin crimes. No thoughts, just Cupids. You’re not ready.

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platinumshawnn · 1 year ago

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Bound by Blood and Fire — Benjicot Blackwood x Tully!oc (pt ii)

A/N: hi! I really dragged my heels on writing this next part because I love to procrastinate. I actually cut a scene from this because it was already running pretty long. Also a *brief* little masturbation scene randomly weaseled its way in there, lol sorry. Content warning??? I did my best to proofread but I probably missed stuff, also please know that I’m aware Oscar is a brunette in the show, he’s a redhead in the books ✨

Synopsis: Elmo and Oscar Tully arrive at House Blackwood to be debriefed on the finalized terms of Serra’s and Benjicot’s betrothal. Tensions among the houses rise as Serra receives support from her father and yields to giving Benjicot a chance. As their engagement is announced to the other houses, news of murders in King’s Landing highlights the broader conflict looming over them.

General content warnings: MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation.

Word count: 8.8k

BBF Masterlist

backward

Serra Tully could only describe Benjicot Blackwood as repulsive if she had to use one word — the kind that made her nauseous, gray in the face sick at the very idea of him.

"To my dear Lady Serra, who I am told, has a tongue as sharp as her needlework. Pray, let's hope she proves as skilled with her wifely duties as she is with her embroidery."

His voice, paired with that stupid smile haunted her as she lay down in bed that night, struggling to find sleep with her eyes stuck to the ceiling. Paired with brother’s laughter, the comment was more horrifying as her face burned with embarrassment — if it were possible, she would have left right then and there; packed her belongings back up, and returned to Riverrun. But she knew that upon arrival, her father would have been furious and only dragged her back.

“Have you no honor?” Her father would sigh, frustrated and red in the face.

Even with all the pleading and reasoning, this was not something she could talk her father out of -- this wasn’t some feast, some meeting of the Lords. This was a marriage pact that he and Kermit had meticulously planned out and negotiated, and there was no amount of foot-stomping or yelling she could do to undo that. At some point during her sleepless night, haunted by the smug grin of Benjicot, did she consider the idea of running away and living in the trees -- but she had no survival skills for the wild and knew she wouldn’t last a week out there. She had considered fleeing to the North, but from the stories she had heard of its cold, harsh winters, she knew she wouldn’t thrive there. And King’s Landing had become no man’s land and she didn’t want to be stuck there during these times. It would only be a matter of days before her father and brothers somehow heard of her presence there, either way and would have her dragged right back.

The only comforting thought would be the arrival of her family, despite her anger towards her oldest brother and father, she felt it would be of comfort to at least have a face around that she recognized. And Oscar -- her dear, little brother Oscar would at least be neutral and she could convince herself someone was at least on her side.

She had only been lucky to catch brief bouts of sleep, lasting no more than a half hour each time before she was startled awake by a shout from the distance; once again, awake and staring at the ceiling, before she was roused by a young girl who looked about her age as the sun rose. Its light streamed in through the windows, bringing with it warmth, a nice break in the dreary weather that had been terrorizing the Riverlands for weeks.

She had dressed with assistance from the same girl whose name she had learned was Grace, her gaze out on the fields and limbs heavy with exhaustion, needing several reminders to lift her arms or to move throughout the process. As she had finished dressing, she was summoned for breakfast, nodding feebly and barely audible as she thanked Grace, before the young blonde girl had nodded and withdrew from her room. She wasn’t even hungry, but she went regardless.

Still, even at breakfast, as she poked at the eggs on her plate that had been paired with fish, did she imagine what would happen if she were to flee. Would anyone notice? If so, how long of a heads-start would she get before they came searching for her? Would they even search for her? Or would they just accept things as they were and betroth one of her younger cousins to Benjicot in her place? She wondered who it would be if they did, maybe Rose? Elisa? Elisa, even at the tender age of ten-and-four was already beautiful, with her long blonde her and light eyes, an exuberant young woman…

“My lady?”

Her head snapped up to where another young guard stood opposite of her at the other end of the table, staring at her. Her gaze instinctively scanned down the length of him, a habit to observe that she had — young and handsome in the face, Serra wondered if it was just custom at Raventree that the staff and its people were all striking and easy on the eyes. He stood silent, waiting before he spoke again upon a receiving a simple hum and raise of her brows in acknowledgment, “Your father and brother have arrived. They are in the yard if you would like me to take you to them.” He said, voice deep and smooth as velvet.

Her gaze dropped to her plate, her stomach churning in rejection at the thought of eating anything more than the three bites she had managed to take. She nodded, standing from her seat with a loud drag of the heavy chair, removing the napkin she had placed in her lap and dropping it over the plate. Folding her hands at her abdomen, she walked around the chair and table to approach the young guard who watched her movements, “Yes, please.” She softly said.

He turned with a curt nod in her direction, only a few paces ahead as he led her through the doors and into the halls, the walls of the keep otherwise silent aside from their footsteps as they walked out the front doors. He led her down the steps, heading towards the gardens onto a path where they turned right onto, before soon met by the familiar sight of the back of her younger brother’s head; his red hair shone in the sun, dressed in his finer clothes with his back to her as he spoke to another guard, gesturing to the pastures that stretched out for miles. With a nod to the guard who stopped abruptly, she offered a hushed ‘thank you’ before hurrying past him.

“Oscar!” She called, his head whirling towards her voice.

A smile lit up his face at the sight of her, apologizing to his companion. He hurried towards her, a brisk walk as he reached out to meet her hands that stretched out towards him, relief washing over her as she tore her hands from his and hugged him.

“Sister?” He laughed, obviously confused by the sudden gesture.

Though Oscar did not push her away or even cringe away from the gesture, instead awkwardly embracing her with a pat on her shoulder, she sensed his confusion. She pulled away, met by his curious gaze, sighing, “It is good to see you again.” She said, taking one of his hands in hers, “It is good to have a face I recognize here.” She admitted.

Oscar let out a breath, chuckling and squeezing her hand, “It is good to see you too.”

“Come, walk with me.” She said, dragging him around as she walked past him and grabbing his elbow with her right hand, “Tell of your journey. How are things back home?” She asked, excitedly as bright eyes stared at her brother, giddy. Oscar laughed once more and allowed her to lead, walking alongside her as they followed the path away from the house.

“It has only been two days.” He said, teasing her.

“It feels as though it has been weeks.” She said, waving him off with her free hand.

His nose scrunched with a smile, rolling his eyes at her theatrics. They walked, her gaze on his face, more than happy to hear of anything but her engagement for the first time in days. He caught her up on the events that had transpired in her short time away, everything down to an alleged spotting of Brackens at the borders between lands; hiding in bushes, but that their cousin and his friends had seen them. A fleet of Blackwood men had pushed them back and issued a warning, according to her brother. She hummed, nodding along and smiling brightly as they walked, content to get out of the cursed walls of Raventree; it almost felt as though nothing had changed and the whole betrothal was nothing but a nightmare. She could have even convinced herself this whole trip was nothing more than just a friendly drop-in.

“What of Grandsire?” She blurted out, interrupting him while her hand clutched Oscar’s forearm as they walked, his head turning towards the entrance of the estate, scanning as though he was worried someone would overhear as he cautiously eyed the guards that seemed to stand at every corner. His shoulders lifted subtly in a shrug, gaze not quite yet returning to her as she looked straight ahead and followed his pace as they walked.

“He is not well, as you know.” He reminded her, though it was not new news to her, the man had been on his deathbed for what felt like years, “But…”

“But?”

Oscar shrugged again, his head turning finally to look straight ahead as well, scanning along the path that was surrounded by lush greenery — Raventree’s yards much better maintained than theirs back home.

“I heard him and Father and Kermit speaking a few nights before your departure, from the hallway…” Oscar began to explain, her head turning to look at him, his eyes casting a side glance at his sister, “He wishes to support Aegon’s claim to the throne. However, you know our father’s stance. And Kermit’s.” Oscar said, his words slow and hushed to a volume only they could hear, his head turning fully to look at her.

If times were different, this kind of betrayal could have had more serious implications — the very act of overthrowing their grandfather, the Paramount Lord of Riverrun, undermining his authority, his very word. If times were different, he might have even pushed for punishment by death if it was in his authority, being that he had been such a hot-tempered man as long as she could remember — he’d maybe seek out another heir, not that he was short of any. But instead, he was just a mere man now, sickly and on his deathbed, aged and too frail to even raise a hand. Serra nodded, silently.

Serra preferred Oscar’s presence more than Kermit’s. He understood the value of comfortable silences, not filling them out of obligation with empty comments. When he did speak, it was of intelligence, conversations that had sincere depth to them, knowledge and wisdom that flowed so effortlessly. There was no awkwardness, no prying to get an answer. He understood that sometimes she just preferred not to speak. She felt that any tension that clung to her shoulders melted away and she could breathe in his presence and that she could speak freely.

“Brother tells me you are not happy about your betrothal.” Oscar stated, his eyes ahead as they walked among the gardens, her own drawn to the bushes of flowers just beginning to bloom, silently sighing at the subject, “Your groom, I suppose.” He added, though there was a lilt to his voice that hinted at his own amusement.

“I take it you knew of their plans.” She pointedly accused, turning to look up at him on her right.

She could see the corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile, his shoulders shaking with a laugh, “And you did not think to warn me?”

“I did not think you would mind…I believe Kermit himself suggested the uncle of Lord of Frey -- Aldean, I believe his name was. A widower, fifty-and-two years of age.” He explained, still teasing his older sister, who did not share his humor over the matter as she abruptly stopped, pulling her arm away. He turned to look at her, met with a frown, “Oh, come on, sister. I only jest.” Oscar said, reaching for her to encourage their walk to resume, however, he sensed her seriousness over the matter and realized there would be no continuing their walk anytime soon. Not until she’d gotten this out of her system.

“I do not find that very funny, Oscar.” She stated.

“My apologies, sister. I didn't mean to upset you.” He sighed, turning to face her. “But I truly did not think it would be much of an issue.”

She let out a curt laugh, her expression one of bemusement, “That I would be sold off to the highest bidder, as nothing but a broodmare? Condemned to a life of squeezing out as many heirs as possible?” She ranted. Her brother appeared horrified by her words, eyes widening as he stared at her, mouth agape like a fish out of water. He closed his mouth, blinking rapidly a couple of times and composing himself.

“I assure you that is the last thing Kermit and father wished for you.” He sincerely tried to reason with her, stepping towards her.

“They’ve condemned me to a life of misery, forced to marry a man who despises me, Oscar.” She snapped, her voice a hiss. “A man who only means to humiliate me and drag my name through the mud for no reason at all. He made that very clear in front of Kermit last night, and he laughed! This…monstrosity was not born of honor or respect, but rather a man’s pride and their want for more power, I am just some pawn to entertain that idea.”

Oscar hesitated before grabbing her upper arm, beginning to drag her further down the pathway of the garden suddenly, hushing her as he glanced behind them towards the guards who appeared to have been alerted to her rant and had eyed her as she spoke. They crossed the yard, and though she attempted to wriggle from his grasp she was left unsuccessful, confused, and angry as he dragged them another several feet before releasing her, “What do you think you’re doing?” She snapped, stumbling back a step when he released her. He looked at her.

“You’ve every right to be angry, but need I remind you you’re a noble-highborn lady, sister.” He suddenly interrupted, her mouth open and ready to spew more angry rants. “Do you understand what that means? You’re invaluable, especially now. Especially amidst a war that hangs at our front doorstep, that is sure to bring bloodshed that neither you nor I could ever comprehend. Now I am sorry that Benjicot is not the match you’ve always wished for, but you are a highborn lady-- you have as much a part in this as any of us. I do not mean to scare you but pull your head out of the ground.”

She gawked at him, eyes wide and processing his words, reflecting on events of the past few weeks. Surely, she hadn’t been naive enough to think that the moment Aegon took the throne as a usurper, she hadn’t expected any less -- that a war of some degree would happen and her brothers and father would be called to the frontlines. But something about the urgency of his tone, the underlying fear there both in voice and face, sent shivers down her spine as she deflated.

“Sister, listen to me. This was not an easy choice for either of them, I have listened to them these past weeks. But please try to see reason-- this is a time of uncertainty…of fear for even the toughest of men.” He said, closing the gap between to grab her hand, holding it between his as she stared at him, a frown of confusion etching itself into her features, “There are rumors from Kings Landing of Prince Lucerys’ death, some saying that it was one of the King Viserys’ own children who have slain him…”

“What?”

Kinslaying, in the walls of King's Landing.

“Listen to me!” He snapped in response to her interruption, sighing. “Rhaenyra means to build an army, we have been called upon. The Blackwood’s too, Serra. We will be expected to march to war any day now..”

She began to withdraw her hand, turning to look back at Raventree and trying to recall where they had entered the gardens from, beginning to hurry from their spot in the yards, “I…must see the father. Surely, these are just rumors.” She muttered, turning from her brother, Oscar’s face falling as he watched after her in a state of despair, his eyes filled with worry as he clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to say anything more than a quiet plea of her name.

He had said enough.

—

Serra stood by the doors of the grand hall, watching as her father and Samwell quietly conversed among themselves for what felt like eternity. Stood silently, clinging to whatever corner she could without getting in the way as the house staff rushed about, preoccupied by last-minute preparations ahead of the feast confirming their betrothal to the other houses — in a mere, short hours, everyone in the Riverlands would know that she and Benjicot Blackwood were to be married; a Tully to a Blackwood. Everyone from Raventree, to the Brackens and beyond once word spread. Her father would be sure to make it an occasion to be celebrated, as grand and extravagant as he could muster in these times.

There was a moment where he had caught her eye, mid-conversation with Samwell. If pride and joy could be embodied into the form of a person, she could have assumed it would have been him right then, a broad smile on his face and looking at her as though she could do no wrong; as though she had just ended the war before it could even take place and that of any others in the future — she wondered how diluted he had to have become since leaving Riverrun, convincing himself she’d wanted any part of this — Enough that he could suppress his supposed guilt and smile at her like that?

Serra forced a tight-lipped smile in return while burying any hint of anger that bubbled inside her, instead maintaining her polite attitude and quiet as she allowed the two older men to finish their conversation in the meantime. She clutched her skirts and tucked herself as far out of the way as she could, picking at her nails and watching as the room came together, adorned in hues of burgundy’s, silver, and grey, lavish and extravagant.

It was only once the arrival of guests had begun did they break apart, all smiles and handshakes as they parted ways, that her father turned and made his way towards his daughter. That same soft smile that radiated pride on his face while he reached out for her hands, “My little dove.” He greeted, taking her hands into his as he looked her over, “I hope your journey was a smooth one and your brother’s company to be kind.” Elmo said, his voice laced with sincerity as he eyed his daughter; his gaze prying at the last half of his sentence.

She drew in a sharp breath, voice small amidst the noise as she replied, “It was…tolerable. Long.” She admitted, her gaze following a young servant boy who barely looked of age as he rushed in with utensils to be laid out at the table, his eyes straight ahead.

His stare remained on her, scanning her face and noting the tension in his daughter’s features, a contrast to her usually calm demeanor as he gently squeezed her hands to regain her attention. She looked back at him suddenly, gaze dropping to their hands with her mouth pursed, his eyes trying to find hers, “My dear,” he said, head lowering slightly as his concern became palpable by her uncharacteristic behavior. “Something troubles you.” He pointedly stated.

He watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, one that was held and let out from behind clenched teeth. She looked up at him and once again in the direction of the table where a young girl was placing down napkins, straightening them with meticulous accuracy to ensure that each piece of fabric was placed identically; the red stitching catching her attention…

“Come, let’s walk and find somewhere to speak where there might not be as many distractions,” Elmo stated, releasing one of her hands and beginning to guide her in the direction of the doors with one arm coming around her shoulders.

Serra looked up at him, nodding as they walked. She withdrew her hand from his and found his elbow, her other clutching at her skirts to pull them away from her feet, a measure to keep from tripping over the fabric that reached the toes of her shoes; her head down and allowing her father to guide them, offering pleasantries to a pair of councilmen they passed. He led them around the corner and down a hallway, Serra’s shoulders relaxing with relief as they’d found quiet — the hum of workers and chatter, a faint hum in the background, birds chirping from the yard, and the occasional shout from children playing somewhere in the gardens. The hallway was lit by natural lighting from the still bright skies, lined with windows that were almost thrice the size of her; their ledges up to her waist as they walked. After a few minutes of peace and using the opportunity to breathe for the first time since that morning, Serra was reminded of her conversation with Oscar, her eyes out the window to her right and stiffening again.

“Tell me what bothers you, dove.” Elmo suddenly said from her left, her hands clasping together around his elbow; fidgeting with a ring on her right hand.

“You did not tell me you were summoned to war.” She stated, turning her head to look at her father, whose features softened and morphed into a look of sorrow.

“Because we haven’t…not yet, at least.” Elmo honestly replied, watching his daughter’s face intently, searching for any sort of emotion that could pinpoint her feelings, even a twitch of her lip or a squint. “I did not think it to be of any concern. I figured you would…become too engrossed in your wedding planning.” He continued, letting out a sigh as he covered her hands with one of his own, her own two hands enveloped by one of his with ease.

“Why send me away now?” She asked, voice quiet and childlike. “Why not let me stay? Help somehow?”

“You are helping, dove— by being here.” He assured, stopping their pace to pause in the middle of the bridge that overlooked the yards. He looked at her, “This is how you help. By being here— the sacredness of marriage and creating alliances that will help us in the days to come, that is your battle. Securing our house’s future, my dear girl.” He softly said.

Her eyes stung with tears that welled up as she sucked in a breath, a flurry of emotions swelling in her chest— the anger, grief for what could have been if things had been different, the sadness. The fear and dread.

“I know this is not what you wanted and I am sorry for placing you in this position against your will. And I am sorry for putting the needs of our house over your happiness,” he said, taking one of her hands into his and squeezing it gently as he lowered his head, ensuring he was eye-to-eye while they spoke, “But I know you will be safe here, even when I cannot be here to see to it myself.”

“And what of you? Of Kermit and Oscar?” She asked finally, “Of grandfather?”

Elmo’s mouth pursed into a line, stress lines creasing themselves deep into his face, “I will continue acting in your grandfather’s place, he’s too…old and senile to act in his better judgment. I would sooner deal with his weakened wrath than that of Rhaenyra’s dragons.” He muttered, patting her hand, “Kermit is to marry Lyanna Grey and Oscar to Margaery Chambers by year’s end.”

She looked away, looking back out the window behind her and towards the fields beyond the gates of Raventree, an ache in her chest at the thought of her brother’s facing the same fate she’d been doomed to; forced into a loveless marriage, “Is this what mother would have wanted for us? To marry strangers, without knowing what it was to be loved in return?” She quietly asked, unable to meet his gaze as her head turned and she found herself staring at her feet, fidgeting under his stare.

Her words could have broken his heart then and there, the sight of his daughter so distraught. Duty aside, Elmo Tully had never been a cruel man and loved his children dearly.

“No…” he admitted honestly, “she would not have.” He quietly added.

Serra let out a laugh under her breath, a bitter sound as she slid her hands from his and fidgeted with a stray fabric on her skirt. Elmo watched her for a moment, “And what comes from this marriage? What do we receive?” She asked, her tone changing to one more resembling anger, shaking as she spoke and looked up at him.

He pondered his next words, a deep breath being exhaled from his nose, “We have promised military and territorial support to the Blackwoods in addition to your dowry. They in return have promised a trade agreement for routes directly between the two houses, resources controlled by their house, and their military aid. They’ve promised troops and weaponry.” Elmo slowly explained to not overwhelm her, running through the negotiation that had taken weeks to come by. “Benjicot has promised to keep you safe and act as your sworn protector, which is the most important thing to me.”

Serra’s hands flung up with a sharp laugh, hardly able to believe his words as she turned and neared the ledge of the window, “And what might he protect me from, other than him?”

Her father stood back for a moment as she leaned into the ledge with her hands, a breeze passing through the corridor. He slowly approached her once he felt he had given her enough a moment to breathe, keeping some space between them and taking her left, looking out where she stared, “I know you two have not seen eye-to-eye in previous years and have had your quarrels. I recognize that it may not have been my best decision and may come as a betrayal.”

He said, looking over at her while her gaze avoided him, straight ahead, “I know it is daunting marrying a stranger, someone who you do not love or trust yet. When I first married your mother, I barely knew her. But over time, we grew to love and understand each other deeply. Your mother and I learned to support and respect each other through our journey together. You and Benjicot will have the same opportunity to grow and build a bond if you give things a chance to…grow.” He tried to reassure her, unsure if he was successful as she did not even glance at him.

He turned his head and rocked back and forth against the ledge for a moment, “I know he was not the best as a child, but he’s grown despite his antics. Kermit tells me last night did not go as he hoped, he and his father extended their apologies this morning.” he explained, earning another bitter laugh, “Benjicot is a good man though, with good values and he is loyal. In time I can only hope that he will prove that and you will come to appreciate his character.” Elmo said, suddenly drawn to the sound of grunts and wood colliding from beneath them, craning his head to catch a glimpse of a training pit that had been haphazardly built, two boys swinging their swords in a spar; his body turned towards his daughter but watching on as he spoke.

Serra turned to him finally, frowning, “You think he will treat me with the respect and kindness I deserve? Do you truly think he has grown? Because it seems like everyone else believes that to be true, but he’s yet to show me any signs of that.”

“I do.”

“And if you’re wrong?” She asked. “Then I’m to be doomed to a life of misery and suffering, married to a man who finds me insufferable?”

His gaze lifted from the spar below them, letting out a chuckle at his daughter’s rant and reaching out again to gather one of her hands in his, “You will be fine, I am sure of it.” He softly said, “While it’s natural to feel uncertain, trust that this union has the potential to bring joy and strength. Give it a chance, as I did with your mother. You have the support and strength of our entire family behind you. We will be here for you every step of the way, dove.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and though Serra was unsure she felt any more confident in Benjicot, she felt a sense of comfort in her father’s words. His free hand lifted to cup her face, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “You are a Tully, my dear girl. You will always be okay.” He muttered into her hair, backing up and releasing her hand. His gaze flickered towards the pit below them once more, flashing her a smile before he took his leave, brushing past her and returning in the direction of the hall without saying anything more and leaving her in silence, processing his words; picking at the edges of her nails, plucking at the skin.

Her interest peaked at whatever his eyes had found amidst the yard as a shout interrupted her thoughts.

Her gaze turned down to where her father’s own had been moments prior. She had to lean over the ledge of the window to see where his attention had been drawn to — there, her eyes landed on a dirt patch in a clearing of grass, a brown-haired boy engaged in a spar with another boy, circling one another with wood swords in hand; stripped down to their tunics as they trained, doublets long-since abandoned in the grass. Serra had never been one to take an interest in the hobbies of men, having never understood the fun of rolling in the dirt with faux swords, but as they turned slightly, her gaze was drawn to the taller boy of the two.

Benjicot. He turned, broad-shouldered, lean, and admittedly handsome Benjicot, whose gaze was transfixed intensely on his opponent — a boy she recognized as a cousin of his — with such focus, sword in his right hand. His sweat-slick face, red and flushed, pulled into a frown of concentration. She watched on as he swung the sword down on the boy opposite of him, the swords colliding in a crack! that echoed through the yard, causing his opponent to stumble back before the sword swung in his direction again; just missing his belly and leaping back out of its path. There was hardly a chance for his cousin to recoil from his attack, the sword once more being swung upwards and just missing his chin in the process. She could admit that Benjicot was not just another Southern boy, weak and existing behind false confidence — Benjicot was also powerful and fierce. He was a ferocious warrior in battle. He was an impressive force to be reckoned with. Suddenly, the thought of her brothers and father fighting alongside him on the battlefield did not seem as daunting or terrifying to think about.��

She continued to watch on as his cousin stumbled back, holding his sword up and blindly swinging at Benjicot, who responded by lifting his right foot and kicking him by his chest onto his back with one swift blow; sending the male reeling backward into the dirt with a grunt when his head slammed back into the ground. Benjicot quickly stood over him, the tip of his sword being pressed against his throat, panting, “I thought you said you were going to take it easy today.” His cousin panted.

Benjicot withdrew his sword, the pair laughing as he offered a hand to assist him to his feet after a moment, “I did.” He replied.

The two boys quietly chatted amongst themselves for a moment longer, laughter echoing across the yard. His cousin -- Emrys, a boy she had met once prior -- laughed as he walked away from their place in the training circle with a clap to his shoulder, shaking his head at whatever Benjicot muttered as he walked out of sight and into the castle floor beneath her. Serra, however, lingered; watching Benjicot now, who was seemingly unaware of her presence, go to the grass to pick up his doublet and a spare sword that sat beneath it. His back had been turned to her as he wiped off the swords of dust, his gaze cast out on the field that was slowly being engulfed by dusk for a minute.

She began to recede from her spot after a few minutes more passed, hoping to turn and leave before he even had the chance to see her. However, she was unsuccessful in her feat as he turned around abruptly, eyes turning their attention up to the balcony she stood on and meeting her gaze as she flushed with embarrassment and remained frozen to the spot -- there was no hiding the fact that she had been watching him now, looking down at him. His mouth twitched, the lines in his face appearing for half a second, but gone just as quickly as though what she assumed was a scowl threatened to surface as he held her gaze.

Instead, he bowed.

“My lady.” He muttered, standing upright before striding back inside; her gaze stuck on the spot where he had been.

She blinked, glancing behind her once, the fact dawning on her that in moments, he would be in her hallway and she would be face to face with him. She clenched her fists, embarrassed enough as is and red-faced, beginning to hurry back to her chambers; the sound of footsteps echoing from the staircase as she passed them. If the Gods were cruel, they would have had her run right into him, but if they had any mercy to spare her--

Her thought was interrupted, slamming her door behind her and pressing her back to it, wide-eyed as she stood there, struggling to hold her breath to be as quiet as possible. She listened carefully to the hallway, able to make out the sound of footsteps approaching her door. Surely, he had not come to confront her? She hadn’t done anything wrong.

The footsteps slowed to a complete stop just beyond her door, halting there, just outside. She tensed up completely, eyes closing as she silently crept further into her room and away from the door, praying the floor would not give away her presence as she slowly walked towards the center of the room; hand over her mouth to silence her heavy breathing and glancing towards the door to see if she could make out any feet beneath the door. Though she could not see anyone, even as she bent over at the waist and strained her eyes, she could still sense their presence.

The footsteps suddenly continued, walking past her doorway quickly and receding down the hallway until she could no longer hear them, free to breathe and finally relax. What in good God's name was he doing? Was he just hellbent on tormenting her, by stalking around the castle like that? Surely, this couldn’t be the same man her father thought had changed and grown out of his tactics of terrorizing her as a child.

She continued backing up until her knees met the frame of the bed, her hand dropping away from her mouth and letting out a sigh as she sat down.

��

Benjicot did not even wish to join the feast.

The thought made him feel sick, doing everything in his power to prolong his having to head down to the dinner hall that had been busy with servants finalizing decorating, and setting up before they began greeting guests — he could hear the chatter from his chamber, and if he looked outside, stuck his head out the window and turned his head just right, he could see them coming and going with supplies. On the other hand, he knew if he was too late, his father would sooner have his head on a spike — there seemed to be no winning for him these days.

Rather than feed into the dread that sat heavy in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead, he chose to busy himself with tasks that had value to them, tasks that would busy his mind — rather than twiddle his thumbs, he organized and skimmed through his old history textbooks; previously a stack on the floor in a corner of his chambers. Rather than chew his nails, he chose to seek out Emrys and train. But even that had not done much for him, coming face to face with one source of his anxiety — feeling her gaze watch his every move. He could feel his shoulders tense, realizing someone was watching him from somewhere behind, and coming to find the Tully girl on the balcony that overlooked the training ground; reeling back when he turned. The very sight of her caused the taste of bile to crawl up the back of his throat, anger bubbling up inside him that he was forced to push down, somewhere deep within him.

He could still hear his father’s voice, his hand at his neck and warning him whenever he saw her — and then that stupid look on her face when he had come out of the doors the night prior. Pitiful and sad.

He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, coming to her door and stopping outside of it, unsure what possessed him to follow her there — he didn’t have anything to say to her. He didn’t need anything from her. Maybe he just wanted to look at her again. Benjicot could hear her footsteps from beyond the door, creeping further from him as he could presume she was trying to get as far away from the door. And just as quickly as he had slipped into a daze that found him at her door, he shook it off and stormed back to his room, fists balled at his sides and jaw clenched.

His gaze was fixed on the ceiling of his room, the servants coming and going meanwhile, with their gazes down as they retrieved soaps and oils for the young heir before hurrying out as quickly as they rushed in without a word. The room soon fell into a silence as he sank into the tub, embracing its warmth that worked to ease the tension in his muscles with his arms laid out over the sides of the tub, and clutching the ledges with a white-knuckled grip — he should have found it relaxing…the silence and the warmth the water provided. But the past twenty-four hours had left him too on edge to think of anything more than the war, his father’s words…his soon-to-be-bride. His head turned, leaning against his right shoulder as his hand released the tub, watching his fingers flex, stretching out before clenching into a fist.

Benjicot had never pictured himself to be much of a husband. As a boy, he understood the duty of it — of marriage and honor, the need for heirs to keep their house strong, their future line secure. That was the value of it, after all. Was security. Built through hundreds of years of alliances, marriage pacts, and children that would follow the path of their father and their father before him. Just as Benjicot’s father had done at the young age of ten and six.

Benjicot did not remember much about his mother — he did not even know who she was before all the grief and illness that kept her confined to her room, as his father had avoided the topic of her much throughout his childhood. After trying to ask about her time and time again after she passed when he was ten-and-one, Benjicot gave up. Of the very little he could manage to get out of his father, he knew that she had struggled in childbirth with him, that she had reached for him, brought him to her chest, and uttered her love for him. Benjicot resembled his mother in a lot of ways — he was a splitting image of his sweet mother but had taken his father’s hair color. She had been born a Lannister and married into the Blackwood’s, barely sixteen herself; well-spoken and confident. Benjicot knew his father loved her, even if he did not say it aloud.

He could recall the pain in his eyes whenever he pressed the subject to know her better, dismissing him as a boy and ending the conversation at that.

“She loved you.” Was all he could offer.

Benjicot had heard whispers, too. That there had been at least four stillborn and two miscarriages before him; wracking her with guilt and grief that left her bedridden for days on end. His father had spent weeks trying to coax her from her room, taking her meals to her. There had been one more stillborn after him and that had been it, the final straw. That was the only version Benjicot had come to know — the empty shell of a woman, who sat by her window, looking out over the pastures for hours at a time with empty, sunken in eyes, struggling just to eat the least amount of food she could. She was skin and bones, and Benjicot feared that if he had hugged her too tight, she might crumble in his arms. The sight of her that last year frightened him honestly.

He shook off the thought, sinking further into the tub until the water lapped at his chin, knees bent up and out of the water to accommodate the short tub that was already a tight squeeze for him. If that grief and that pain and agony was part of “honor and duty”…Benjicot wanted no part of it. He had distanced himself from the subject of marriage after his mother’s funeral and had avoided any mention of it as best he could. The horror he felt when his father had gone behind his back and forced his hand was undoubtedly made even worse by the prospect of his bride.

A girl who could barely look him in the eye, more fascinated by bugs and creatures than to have had the decency to introduce herself when they first met. He could recall her mother having to introduce her, bent at her side and reminding her daughter of propriety; only then did she quietly speak her name, covered in dirt. Benjicot could have forgiven it if she had taken to something like swordsmanship and training in battle like his aunt had — a skilled warrior with an arrow, but instead, she collected bugs.

Surely, she’d had a say in their match, as well.

The very idea perplexed him that she would even choose him after everything. Benjicot had never been shy of making it known that he could not stand her as children. Even if they had both grown up and changed since he still could not see the reason behind it or what she had to benefit by choosing him. Benjicot Blackwood was a man who needed to understand and have an answer for everything.

Benjicot was not unaware that she had grown much since they had last seen each other. He also could not deny that she had taken a likeness to her mother’s beauty, having grown into her looks in womanhood — she could not have been short of her pick from potential suitors who would have given her the time of day, asking for her hand. She was by means not unlucky in looks. She had less interest in playing with bugs that crawled all over her these days, too. The very fact that he could not make sense of it frustrated him to no end; instead, thoughts of Serra Tully stirred a feeling in his belly, ones that spread across his chest that he could not quite place a finger on — a mix of fury and…something more.

He sat up abruptly with a growl, water splashing around him and over the ledge of the tub; spilling over onto the wooden floors as he cupped some of the water between his hands and splashed it into his face. His hands carded through his hair, tugging at the roots as he let out a sigh that echoed off the walls of his chamber, slumping back against the tub — this seemed to be his only safe space, away from the suffocating reality of the expectations placed upon him, laying heavy on his shoulders. It was doing little to rid him of the thoughts that plagued his mind if even just for a moment.

He stilled, frozen and unmoving as a thought crossed his mind. His right hand, which had found its way back to the ledge of the tub, slid underneath the water, his hand slipping between his thighs and taking his cock into his grasp— confident he would have some time at least. He was desperate for some kind of distraction at this point, a last-ditch effort to soothe his mind as his hand moved with languid movements against himself, head hanging back against the headrest as his eyes closed and he started to relax for a moment; attempting to lose himself in the lewd act. His mouth dropped open with a sigh, the early flickers of arousal beginning to burn in his belly as his hand increased pace, chest rising with a heavy breath—

“My lord.”

The door shot open with minimal warning, Alistair’s voice interrupting the silence as he entered the room, coming to an abrupt stop at the door. The sudden interruption caused Benjicot to shoot upright in the tub, hand leaving his crotch and gripping the tub once more to pull himself forward, hissing, “Fuck!” He shouted, heart pounding as he panted, a hand dragging over his face, “What? What is it?” He snapped hurriedly, humiliated.

Alistair stuttered for a moment, visibly flustered as Benjicot turned his head slightly to look at him; hair falling into his eyes that he quickly brushed back. He nodded, “My apologies, my lord, I--…” he said, pausing. “Your father and the Tully’s have already been seated in the great hall. As have your guests. Your father has asked for you.”

Benjicot was still trying to bring down his heart rate when he nodded, waving him out dismissively, “Thank you.” He grumbled.

Alistair nodded once more at the heir, gaze down as he turned and rushed from the room, allowing Benjicot to finally slump back again; face burning from the humiliation of their interaction.

—

The feast was loud and dragging on.

Benjicot had arrived and been greeted by the familiar faces of the many other houses of the Riverlands, painfully aware they were not oblivious to and noted his lateness as punctuality had not a trait that he had ever been known for since he was a boy. He had become quite practiced at avoiding their gazes as he took his seat, not bringing any further attention to himself than was necessary -- or at least more than already was. It had been no secret that the feast was hosted on his behalf, specifically emphasized in the letters that had been dispatched by Raven two days prior, and he could have only assumed that everyone had some inkling of what had brought them together. Samwell Blackwood was not a man who cared for hosting events as grand as this occasion had turned out to be often unless it was of high importance, and it had been no secret that he intended to find a wife for his son. Even glancing around, Benjicot could have counted at least a half dozen of the Lords who were within arms reach who had offered their daughters hands since he was ten-and-six, his face buried in a chalice of wine and scanning the table.

His father, although he had announced his arrival with feigned pride at the sight of the boy Lord, Benjicot could see the hint of a discontented frown from the opposite end of the table when he entered. He had remained silent, however, relieved but unsure if he preferred the silence over a scold, leaving him on edge the entire night.

It didn’t help his nerves that the only chair that had been saved for him was nestled right in between his father and his betrothed at his right, with Elmo sitting across from him on his father’s left, Kermit across from Serra. He had balled his hands into fists at his side during the walk to his seat at the head of the table, bowing his head with a muttered greeting to the Tully father and son who offered pleasantries among the hum of conversation. Meanwhile, Serra’s eyes had remained down at the table, hands in her lap, demurely sitting beside him and only briefly catching his stare when he muttered a quiet greeting to her while pulling out his chair and sitting down.

They remained otherwise silent, the quiet that had befallen them only broken by his father, spiraling into Elmo and Kermit making conversation by recalling stories of their childhood. Benjicot sat with his elbows on the table in front of him, hands clasped together while his chin rested on his knuckles, humming and letting out a chuckle sometimes in response to certain memories, his eyes otherwise scanning the table and the guests. He watched the way they became rowdier with more wine.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clink of a cup, his father standing from the table. The table finally silenced for the first time in hours, eyes watching his father with anticipation as he held his chalice high.

"Lords and ladies, esteemed friends and allies, it is with great pleasure and honor that I stand before you tonight. In the spirit of unity and the strengthening of bonds between our noble houses, I am delighted to announce the betrothal of my beloved son, Benjicot, to the gracious and noble, Serra, daughter of Lord Elmo of House Tully.” Samwell announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. He paused, looking down at the young couple who looked up at him, his gaze landing on his son and nodding to himself before he continued, “May their union bring prosperity, joy, and enduring friendship to our families. Let us raise our glasses in celebration of this auspicious occasion." He finally finished, looking back out at the table that erupted in applause and cheerful exclamations of agreement.

Benjicot, however, sharply inhaled; fighting the urge to scowl as he looked into his nearly empty cup, hiding his stare as his father began to sit down. In the corner of his eye, he witnessed a guard come forward, Alistair standing over his shoulder when Ben’s eyes lifted briefly to look over and see him muttering something into his ear; witnessing the moment his father tensed up.

“Excuse me, pardon-- I…” Samwell said, standing up again.

The prying eyes of the room remained on Samwell as he nodded, the guard stepping back and towards the wall where he had planted himself. The Blackwood Lord slowly turned his attention back to the table that had fallen silent, awaiting his next words, his cool stare shifting around for a moment before his mouth opened once more, “My apologies for disturbing your supper once again,” He begrudgingly stated, “It has been brought to my attention that…the Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen was murdered in his bed last night.”

It was at that point that all hell broke loose, his words met with a gasp from somewhere at the table before the table erupted in men’s anger and uproar at the news. Meanwhile, Benjicot watched his father slowly sit back down in silence, the prior joy on his face now replaced by a stoic expression; visibly drawn back into his thoughts as Elmo spoke up, “Gods be good... Pray that he went quickly.” He quietly muttered, his hand tightening around his chalice as the chaos raged on in light of the news.

“Yes…” Benjicot blurted, his gaze meeting Elmo’s from across the table, the latter of whom had gone for a drink from his cup; glancing between the young lord and his daughter who was visibly shaken by the news, her hands now clenched on the table. Benjicot could make out in the corner of his eye as she looked over at him, turning his head just enough and looking down at her left hand that was closest to him. He released his cup, setting it down against the table, and reached across to lay his hand over hers as if to comfort her though he could feel her stiffen. He disregarded her reaction and turned back to her father, “Pray that his suffering has ended.”

Benjicot watched as her father stared at their hands, glancing again between them before he visibly relaxed at the sight and nodded in response to his words. He wasn’t certain his eyes were playing tricks on him, but he saw the small hint of a smile on Elmo’s face, thrown in the direction of his daughter that was brief before he looked away. Serra’s hand quickly withdrew to drop into her lap, her gaze bearing into the side of his face as he lifted his chalice then with the now free hand and took a drink -- he only meant to gauge her reaction, get some hint of his prior question on her motive. He let out a ‘hm’ into his cup, his eyes casting left and meeting hers, his eyebrows shooting up. She looked down.

He had an answer he could work with at least.

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daandyli0n · 2 years ago

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Sleepless (Prologue)

(a very short thing, but it's the prologue to this whole story. enjoy, y'all :] @docterzerocare if you wanna see this thing)

(warnings: child death, referenced harm to children, graphic description of a corpse)

There was a dead kid found in the woods, and he hadn’t been dead for more than ten minutes.

And yet no one had heard him scream.

It was September 22, 20XX, at 3:20 PM. School had been out for twenty minutes at Sleepyfern Middle School, and around fifteen minutes ago, a young boy had left the school to walk home alone. At least five minutes after that something had attacked them. And around ten minutes later, someone finally found him.

By that point, it was too late to do anything to help him.

Whatever had attacked them, it had mauled him. His body was covered in scratches and bites, his eyes had practically been clawed out, and there was blood absolutely everywhere.

They were barely recognizable.

A small crowd gathered around the spot, and the area had become a crime scene. People had gathered, horrified by the sight before them. What sort of creature would do this, completely unprompted? Why so violent?

Why hadn’t any of them heard him scream?

Among the crowd stood another child, stood frozen in shock, disbelief, and grief. A close friend, who had, just a short while earlier, laughed with them and said goodbye. A child looks at the blood-soaked white cloth, thinly covering her friend’s dead body.

And that child’s name was…

#Sleepless (oc story)#Dandy's Writing #oc: josh canary #< that's the Very Dead Kid #now who's being talked about at the end? well...we'll just have to wait and see won't we?#tw child death #tw child harm

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labryveinth · 8 months ago

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HELLO TUMBLR!!! LONG TIME NO SEE ... sowwy 4 not posting. been up 2 some MISCHIEF!!! anyway. this is my first oc post EVR.... his name is ethernet! he's an epic sans-turned-error variant.... :3 this is his official ref!!! me & my friend (@tearcynical) created an ask blog 4 ethernet & 4 his oc, crosswise, since they both play important roles in each other's stories. there, i'll reveal more about him as a character!!! the ask blog is named @wirenet (still a wip however...)

for now, you can have a short summary of his personality ( that is quite old but nonetheless... still an ok summary... ) — since an epic without whimsiness isn’t an actual epic, ethernet continues to be just as dorky as his original self, only to a certain extent. due to the multiple malfunctions and distortions of his code, his personality underwent a dramatic transformation. the once patient and calm demeanor he displayed gave way to a volatile and explosive temperament as if he were a time bomb ready to go off at any moment. years of depravation and sleepless nights have contributed to his short-fuse and paranoia, as even the smallest of irritations could ignite his anger, sending him into a tirade. and if you don’t play into his games or entertain him in any way — you may as well dig your own grave. as for his role, from an outsider's perspective, ethernet is considered a digital "destroyer", a threat to the multiverse. however, if you were to ask ethernet himself - he would not identify with any of these terms. due to the destructive nature of his abilities (and his fucked up code), he ends up destroying most things he touches. him "destroying" aus is him desperately searching for a part of himself that he's lost. his ultimate goal!! the reason why he's even touching other aus in the first place. what that "part of himself" is??? I'M NOT TELLING YOU!!! I'M LEAVING YOU ON A CLIFFHANGER!!! (until next episode) his main ability is his cables. it has two uses. first is "extraction", which allows him to extract information from any au by ripping an orifice in the fabric of the timeline & plugging his cables in (praying this made sense). the consequence of this ability is that, upon finishing extraction, the au becomes distorted (and on most occasions, self destructs). the second, replication, allows ethernet to copy an au’s extracted code and temporarily apply it to his own before it malfunctions. here is an example of how extraction would look like.... </3 vvv

here is what (half of) his skeleton looks like ! scandalous, i knoiw... :/

AND FINALLY.... HERE ARE SOME DOODLES I MADE OF CROSSWIRE & ETHERNET. they r canonically doomed yaoi crepic. their ship name is called wirenet how cool is that.!

CROSSWIRE BELONGS TO TEARCYNICAL!!! ok sorry 4 the massive art dump & yap. goodbye,.....

#epic sans #epictale #error!epic #utmv #undertale au #sans au #i know his name is stupid but its silly ok. be nice to him....#cross x epic #crepic #but its actually doomed error crepic #theyre both errors #how do i tag #error cross is friend's oc heh #wirenet #sorry this is a crazy dump

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papersoilder · 3 months ago

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(Yandere Oc) Ian x Male Reader

ˑ 𖥔 ּ ִ 𖦹 WARNINGS: none

̽𖧧 word count: 2000– more Ian content because why not can be viewed as a part 2 of this

You heard the cigarette before you smelled it. That flick of a cheap lighter, the hiss of the flame catching. Then the smoke bitter and clinging, the smell crept into your lungs as you stepped out of your apartment building.

Ian was leaning against the rusted railing like he always did. One hand in his pocket. The other bringing the cigarette to his lips.

“You’re late,” he said, not looking at you.

You didn’t ask how he knew your schedule. He always knew.

“I didn’t say we were meeting,” you replied, adjusting your backpack.

He tilted his head like a dog hearing something only he could. “Didn’t need to.”

You started walking. He fell in step beside you without asking, like he always did. You didn’t ask him to leave either. That never worked. You’d tried before.

“You’re quiet today,” he said after a block. “Something happen?”

“Nope.” You replied calmly popping the p.

“You sure?” His voice was light, but his stare cut sideways those sleepless eyes scanning your face like it was a confession waiting to be read. “You didn’t text me back last night.”

“I was busy.”

“With him?”

There it was. That drop in his voice. The shift from casual to possessive in half a breath. You stopped walking and turned to face him.

“Ian.”

His stare didn’t waver. He held his cigarette between his fingers like it was keeping him from grabbing something else. Maybe you. Maybe his self-control.

“If I find out you followed him again,” you said, low and flat, “we’re done. No more talking. You won’t see me again.”

He didn’t blink. But his mouth twitched. “Did something happen to him?”

“No. But if you keep pushing, something will.”

Ian took a long drag from his cigarette. Then he tossed it to the curb and stepped on it. “Fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“I said fine, didn’t I?” His hands went back in his hoodie pocket. He turned and started walking again. “Come on. You’ll be late for class.”

You stood there for a second longer, watching the back of his head. The way he slouched when he walked, like he carried too much weight in his shoulders. Then you sighed and followed him.

The first time Ian showed up at your window was a year ago. Second story, middle of the night, rain hitting the glass. You should’ve screamed. Called the cops. Instead, you opened the latch.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered.

He was soaked. Hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. “Saw you get into that guy’s car earlier.”

You stared at him. “So you climbed two stories.”

“He put his hand on your leg,” Ian said, like it was a crime. Like that alone justified trespassing.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped aside and let him in.

Since then, he never really stopped. He didn’t ask. He didn’t knock. Sometimes he waited outside your class. Sometimes you woke up and he was asleep on your couch like he belonged there. You stopped being surprised around the third or fourth time. Maybe that was the mistake.

But it wasn’t that you didn’t care. You just… got used to it.

That afternoon, you were alone in your apartment when Ian texted.

Ian [4:31 PM]: can i come up?

You [4:32 PM]: door’s open

Five minutes later, he was at your table, picking at your leftover takeout without asking. You sat across from him, scrolling on your phone.

“Why do you let me do this?” he asked, breaking the silence.

You looked up. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured around vaguely. “Be here. Be close.”

You set your phone down. “Because if I said no, you’d show up anyway. You’ve never cared about boundaries.”

His jaw flexed. “You hate me?”

“No.” You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “If I hated you, you’d know.”

He stared at you again unblinking, unnerving. You’d gotten used to that, too. There was something sad buried in it, like he didn’t know what to do with his own intensity. Like no one had ever taught him how to want something without ruining it.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said quietly.

“You don’t scare me,” you said. “But you do piss me off.”

He blinked. That startled him more than anything else.

You stood, walked around the table, and stopped in front of him. “You want me to be okay with you being like this? Fine. I’ve accepted it. But that means you follow my rules now.”

Ian looked up at you. “What rules?”

“No hurting people. No following people. No threats. No sabotage. No ‘accidents.’ You want to be close to me? Don’t make me regret it.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. You watched the storm roll behind his eyes—violent, needy, desperate. But he nodded.

“Okay.”

You nodded back and sat on the couch. “Now get over here.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

Later, you were half-asleep on the couch. Ian was beside you, arms folded, eyes glued to the ceiling like sleep was a language he couldn’t speak. You shifted, your shoulder brushing his.

“You ever gonna stop looking at me like I’ll disappear?”

He didn’t answer for a long time.

“You ever gonna stop pretending you don’t want me to look at you like that?” he said eventually.

You chuckled. “Maybe not.”

There was quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward. You could feel his breath slow beside you. Like proximity calmed something in him. You didn’t need to ask what. You knew.

“You’re not a monster, Ian,” you said, eyes closed.

“Sometimes I think I am.”

You opened your eyes and turned to him. He was already watching you.

“You do anything like last time again like hurting someone for being too close and I’ll walk. For real.”

He nodded, solemn.

“But,” you added, “if you want to be here, and you can hold that shit back, I won’t go anywhere.”

His hand twitched like he wanted to touch you, but didn’t know how. “I can try.”

You stared at him for a second, then reached over and put your hand over his. “Try harder. Because I do like you, Ian. I just need you to act like you’re worth being liked.”

His fingers closed around yours.

And for once, he didn’t say anything. Just held your hand like it was proof you were real. Like if he let go, he’d wake up back in that hollow place he came from.

You didn’t pull away.

Not that night.

Not yet.

#x male reader #x reader #oc #yandere #oc x reader #oc x you #yandere x male reader #yandere x you #yandere oc

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moncherriecoups · 4 months ago

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Muted Hearts

Some love stories are whispered, not spoken. Some promises are signed, not said.

This is ours.

Fingers trace constellations on bare skin,

a quiet tether, an unspoken plea.

The world may call her name,

but here, in this hush of tangled limbs, she is his.

His lips press against the curve of her shoulder,

a silent claim, a whispered vow.

Let them watch, let them want—

but no one else will ever know her like this.

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Seungcheol x f!oc

MINORS DNI

MINORS DNR

Tags: tense relationship, idolxoc, slowburn relationship, angst, sexual interaction

Word count: 3.6k

──────────────────────────��───

Chapter Five

The gallery was empty now, save for the echo of her own footsteps. The aftertaste of the exhibition lingered in the air—soft chatter still felt alive in the walls, the scent of expensive cologne and warm wine still clinging to the air. Sua moved through the dimly lit space, her body exhausted but her mind restless.

She had done it. Months of planning, endless sleepless nights—this exhibition had been hers to build from the ground up, and tonight, she had watched it unfold perfectly.

But she couldn’t shake it.

Minghao’s words. The way he had looked at her. The quiet knowing in his voice, the weight of something unspoken pressing into the space between them.

"You ever wonder what you’re getting yourself into?"

A slow exhale slipped from her lips as she reached her office, hands trembling slightly as she gathered her things. She knew the answer. She had known it the moment she signed that NDA, the moment she let Seungcheol pull her deeper into his world.

No turning back now.

Suddenly, she heard a soft rustle. A presence.

Her breath caught as she turned—only to find him standing there.

Seungcheol.

Leaning against the doorway, a bouquet in hand, watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.

Her lips parted. "You—what are you doing here?"

His smile was small. Almost knowing. "Figured my girl deserved flowers after tonight."

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, until he was close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne—His scent wrapped around her, thick and inescapable, a blend of smoky birch, crushed blackcurrant, and the lingering warmth of ambered musk. It didn’t just settle in the air; it clung to her skin, curled around her senses like a slow-burning ember, searing him into memory.

He held the bouquet out to her, but his gaze never wavered from her face. Sua took them carefully, fingers brushing against his. "You didn’t have to."

"I wanted to."

Silence. Heavy, charged.

She should be happy. She was happy. But something about the way Seungcheol was looking at her—like he was waiting for something—made her heart pound against her ribs.

"You okay?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Of course," she said, too quickly.

A pause. His eyes flickered over her, sharp, knowing. Then—

"Minghao was here."

Her breath stilled.

Of course, he knew.

There was no hiding from Seungcheol, not when it came to this. He knew where his members were at any given time, knew their schedules, knew who would be free enough to stop by.

Seungcheol’s voice wasn’t accusing, but it wasn’t light either. It carried something else—something deeper, something darker.

"He stopped by for the opening," she admitted, fingers tightening around the bouquet.

A low hum.

Sua swallowed. "He bought two pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed. "Of course he did."

A flicker of something sharp, something unreadable in his eyes. Jealousy wasn’t an unfamiliar look on him, but this—this was something else.

"Cheol," she sighed, stepping closer. "It wasn’t like that."

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. "I know." His voice was softer now, but his body was still tense. "Just—fuck. I wish I could’ve been there." The words settled between them. Sua exhaled, reaching for his hand, "I wanted you there too," she murmured.

His fingers curled around hers. Warm, grounding.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then je broke the silence, "You’re distracted."

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, startled.

Seungcheol studied her carefully. "It’s not just me, is it?"

She hesitated. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, but there was something else beneath it—something unreadable. "Did he say something?"

Silence.

His grip on her fingers tightened just slightly. Not demanding. Just waiting.

Sua swallowed. "He—" She hesitated. "He... Was just making sure, about us. Just asked if I knew what I was getting into."

A flicker. A shift.

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked. "Did you tell him you did?"

Sua let out a small, dry laugh. "Would it have mattered?"

Something in his eyes darkened.

Then, suddenly, he was moving.

Slow, deliberate steps until her back hit the edge of the desk. Until he was close enough for his breath to fan against her skin.

"Would it have?" he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

Her breath hitched. "Cheol—"

His fingers found her waist. Light, barely there. Teasing.

"You’re overthinking again," he murmured. "Worrying about things you don’t need to."

"I just—"

His fingers now found her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "Look at me."

She did.

And immediately, she was drowning. Dark eyes, heavy-lidded with something unreadable. A gaze that stripped her bare, left her exposed in ways she wasn’t sure she could handle.

"I don’t care what he said," Seungcheol continued, his thumb ghosting over her bottom lip. "But I need to know if you do."

Sua hesitated. She wanted to say no.

Wanted to tell him she didn’t care. But she did.

Because Minghao had seen through her too easily. Had made her question things she had buried too deep.

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked. He exhaled, slow and measured, before his fingers traced lower, down the column of her throat, over the bare skin of her collarbone.

A slow, featherlight touch.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, low and quiet.

A beat of silence.

She exhaled. "No."

His lips twitched. "Then stop thinking about anyone else but me."

And then, his lips found hers.

—

It started slow.

A slow, simmering warmth—his hands moving with purpose, tracing every inch of her like he was memorizing her. Sua’s fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until the space between them no longer existed.

Seungcheol was all-consuming—his touch, his scent, the quiet hum of approval that rumbled against her lips when she tugged at his hair.

She could feel it. The tension. The unspoken need.

"You drive me crazy," he murmured against her skin.

She wanted to say something—wanted to push back, wanted to call him out on the way he was avoiding his own jealousy—but then he was lifting her, gripping her thighs, and suddenly, her back was against the cool surface of the desk, and Seungcheol was between her legs, looking down at her with something unreadable in his gaze.

"You always look so pretty like this," he murmured, his fingers trailing up the inside of her thigh. "So pliant. So eager."

Her breath caught.

His fingers ghosted higher. "Tell me what you want," he murmured.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"You," she whispered.

His breath hitched, and he gave her exactly that.

—

It was slow. Torturously so.

He took his time, lips trailing down her body, hands mapping out every inch of her as if he wanted to commit it to memory.

His touch was both soft and firm, teasing and demanding, every move designed to unravel her piece by piece.

And god—he knew exactly how to.

His mouth, warm and wet, against her skin.

His hands, rough and steady, gripping her thighs, her waist, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

"You’re trembling," he murmured against her stomach, lips pressing against the sensitive skin there. "You're that desperate already?"

Sua let out a shaky breath.

"Seungcheol, please—"

"Patience," he tutted, his fingers digging into her hips. "I want to take my time with you tonight."

And he did.

He pushed her to the edge over and over again, only to pull back just as she was about to fall.

It was maddening.

Deliciously cruel.

Every time she thought she had a moment to breathe, he would shift, his mouth, his hands, something new pressing against her, inside her, pushing her higher, making her beg.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmured against her ear, his fingers teasing, his breath hot.

She couldn’t even answer.

Could barely form a coherent thought.

And god, he loved it.

"You’re so wet for me," he muttered. "So fucking needy."

Sua whimpered.

And finally, finally, he relented.

When he pushed into her, when their bodies finally came together, when he filled her so completely that all she could do was cling to him—

She knew.

She had already lost herself to him.

—

Seungcheol didn’t stop until he had her exactly where he wanted—writhing, breathless, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body arching under him like she was made to fit against him.

And fuck, she was.

He groaned, dragging his lips down the column of her throat, down to the dip of her collarbone, before biting down just enough to make her gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her skin, voice thick with something raw. “Let me hear you.”

Sua was past the point of shame.

Her thighs trembled around his waist, her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath coming in sharp, shaky pants as he thrust into her—slow, deep, deliberate.

Every movement sent heat pooling low in her stomach, every drag of his body against hers sent pleasure sparking through her veins.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

"Seungcheol," she gasped, her hips rolling up to meet his. "More—"

A sharp exhale, his fingers tightening around her waist.

"You’re so greedy," he muttered, but there was no real bite to his words. Only something dark, something amused, something dangerously fond.

Then, just as she was about to protest, he shifted, adjusting their angle—

And fuck.

Her breath hitched, her back arching off the desk as wet-hot pleasure shot through her.

"Seungcheol—"

"I know, baby," he groaned, dropping his forehead to hers. "I feel it too."

She clenched around him, her body desperate, aching, and Seungcheol cursed, his grip on her hips turning bruising.

And then he gave in.

His movements turned rougher, faster, his rhythm growing frantic as he chased the heat building between them.

The room was filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing, their bodies moving together, the sharp, quiet moans spilling from her lips every time he hit just the right spot.

And god—he loved that sound.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his fingers finding her jaw, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Look at me when you come."

The words alone nearly pushed her over.

She was close, so close, her body tightening, her nails dragging down his back, her thighs trembling—

Then—

A sharp thrust.

A whispered name.

And she shattered.

Pleasure flooded through her, blinding and all-consuming, and she barely even registered the low groan Seungcheol let out as he followed her over the edge, his grip turning desperate, his body pressing deeper, closer—

Until there was nothing left but the ragged sound of their breathing, the heavy weight of his body against hers, the slow, steady return to reality.

—

Seungcheol exhaled a quiet laugh, his lips grazing the damp skin of her shoulder as they lay tangled together on the sofa in her office. Their breaths were still uneven, the heat of their bodies lingering in the space between them. His fingers traced absent patterns along her spine, a silent conversation in the aftermath of pleasure.

“You good?” he murmured, voice hushed, like he didn’t want to break the fragile stillness wrapped around them.

Sua let out something between a sigh and a laugh, her cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. “Shut up.”

He huffed out a soft chuckle, the warmth of it brushing against her hair. "I’ll take that as a yes."

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it—only warmth, only the quiet hum of something deeper. He tightened his arms around her just a little, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. And for a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Just them, tangled together, basking in the afterglow of something neither of them were quite ready to name.

—

Seungcheol kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers curled into a fist. The car hummed softly around them, the city lights blurring past in streaks of gold and red. Beside him, Sua had fallen asleep, her body slack with exhaustion, her breathing slow and steady.

She was his.

She had given herself to him with no hesitation, had let him unravel her completely in that dimly lit office, her body fitting against his like it was meant to be there. And yet—he could still feel it. That small, nagging weight pressing against his chest, that flicker of hesitation in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Minghao.

Seungcheol never thought he'd feel jealous of Minghao.

Not like this.

They’ve spent years together, trained through exhaustion, built a bond that was supposed to be unshakable. Seventeen was his family, his pride. But the second he realized Minghao had been there first—had known Sua before he even got the chance—something ugly curled in his chest, twisting sharp and unrelenting.

The words Minghao left her with weren’t much, just a simple warning, but it was enough. Enough to linger in Sua’s mind, enough to make her hesitate, enough to plant doubt where Seungcheol had spent weeks making her feel sure about them. About him.

Seungcheol wanted to scoff. What the fuck did Minghao know?

But Minghao isn’t just some guy he can despise and be done with. He’s family. A brother. And Seungcheol would never let himself be the reason that bond breaks. But damn it, the thought of Sua, his Sua, standing next to Minghao, listening to his words, considering them—

The car stopped at a red light. Seungcheol turned his head slightly, his gaze softening when it landed on her. She looked so small like this. So quiet, so at peace, her body tucked into the seat, her head tilted ever so slightly toward the window, strands of her hair slipping over her cheek like a delicate veil. The faint rise and fall of her breath was the only movement, as if the world outside couldn’t touch her in this moment.

She’s here with me now. That’s all that matters.

At least, that’s what he told himself. But deep down, he knew—he wasn’t done proving it to her.

──────────────────────────────

hehe

good morning :)

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damneddamsy · 6 months ago

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second sight | modern!cregan stark x fem!oc (part ii)

a/n: on this exciting version of 'second sight', it's the modern day, folks! Phones, fast cars, fame, college, apartments, tabloids, money!? (@justdazzling - I LOVE YOU, thank you, little genius)

summary: (read part i here) Ever wonder how they met? Claere and Cregan’s story forms at the intersection of opposites: a mysterious girl with a scandalous reputation and a fuelled, grounded hockey player, both trying to navigate lives that couldn’t seem more different. Parties, misunderstandings, and an unexpected kiss—that's where Claere and Cregan’s secret romance begins.

warnings: this is pure, tooth-rotting fluff and yearning. language. law-breaking. alcohol. drugs.

words: 18,000+, 45 min read (full-time job + sleepless nights = ?)

Cregan Stark had just won the game, but for the first time in his life, winning didn’t matter.

The locker room was alive with the kind of chaos only a hard-fought victory could ignite. Shouts echoed off the walls, and laughter bounced between the clangs of tossed helmets and stick taps on the floor. The air was electric, a cocktail of sweat, adrenaline, and triumph that made the walls feel like they might burst.

The riotous celebration almost drowned Coach’s gruff praise: “That’s how you fight, lads! That’s how you finish!” His words struck sparks in the room, igniting another round of cheers and fists banging against lockers.

Normally, Cregan would’ve been at the centre of it all, roaring with his team, drowning in the high of a win well-earned. His shoulders would feel lighter under the weight of the captain’s "C," his grin splitting his face as he soaked up the shared glory.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he sat slouched in his cubby, his jersey half-stripped and his skates still on, staring down at the phone lighting up in his hands like it was burning a hole through his palm. It was impossible to ignore—the insistent buzz of notifications, the glow of the screen, the words that blurred together in a flurry of disbelief and shock.

Bro, howwww XD I sniff the bullshit

How did you pull HER, Stark?

Score. You owe me a pint, brother

Lock it the fuck down, mate. She’s out of your league.

Cregan swiped the screen to dim the messages, jaw tight as the heat climbed his neck. This was what he’d signed up for, wasn’t it? The stares. The jokes. The endless fucking questions. He scrolled past the messages, thumb hovering over his camera roll. Hesitation flickered—just for a second—before he tapped on a photo. There she was, the light of his whole life.

The photo filled the screen like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Claere sat at his darkened dining table, a small strawberry cake glowing with two candles in front of her. Her silver hair was pulled into loose pigtails, her cheeks slightly flushed from the room's heat. She’d scrunched up her face for the camera, lips puckered, eyes two crescent moons of pure joy. She was laughing, the sound practically tangible even through a static image.

It was their second anniversary. He’d taken the picture after making a fool of himself trying to light the candles with a busted lighter. Claere had been in stitches. “You’re hopeless,” she had said, shaking her head before kissing him on the cheek.

“Godsdamnit, Stark.” A voice snapped him back to reality.

He jolted, fumbling to lock his phone, but not before the picture had been burned into someone else’s retinas. The voice belonged to Tomlin, his closest defenseman.

“She’s a fucking hottie, mate.”

“You lucky bastard,” someone else chimed in, and soon a cluster of guys crowded around him, craning their necks to see.

“All right, that’s my sister,” came a sharper voice.

Jacaerys Velaryon, Claere’s older brother and their star winger, emerged from the haze of damp towels and shattered sticks. His presence cut through the lingering noise of post-game banter, exasperation written in the hard set of his jaw as he shoved through the group crowding around Cregan’s bench.

“Back off, all of you. Evil eye assholes,” Jace snapped, swiping a towel from one of the guys as they dispersed. A few muttered half-hearted protests, others threw exaggerated thumbs-ups or winks in Cregan’s direction before retreating toward the showers.

Jace dropped onto the bench beside Cregan without ceremony, slinging the stolen towel over his shoulder. He didn’t say anything at first, focusing instead on unwrapping the compression bandages from his legs, wincing as the fabric peeled away from bruised, sweat-slicked skin.

“Tough game,” he muttered finally, not looking up.

Cregan let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Just say it, Jace.”

“Say what?” Jace’s grin was maddeningly lopsided like he knew exactly what Cregan expected but wouldn’t give it to him. “That I’m proud of you?”

Cregan frowned, caught off guard. “The fuck?”

“Yeah,” Jace said, leaning back against the lockers with a groan. “About time you came out with this. Can’t imagine it feels good, keeping something like that buried.”

Cregan blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Bloody hell, I could not keep your secret any longer,” Jace added with a laugh, shaking his head. “It was fouling me up. Every time I saw her, it was like I had to bite my tongue in half not to slip.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, his shoulders loosening despite himself. “That simple, huh?”

“Guess so,” Jace said, shrugging. “You make her happy, Stark. That’s all I care about.”

Before Cregan could respond, his phone buzzed again. The screen lit up, illuminating Claere’s name. Everything else—the damp towels, the clatter of skates against the locker room floor, even Jace beside him—faded into the background. It was like the whole world narrowed to that one word, that one connection.

Her name. Just six letters, but somehow it carried the weight of everything they’d built together. The stolen glances, the late-night conversations, the quiet moments where words weren’t needed. It wasn’t just a name on a screen—it was her. Her laugh, her eyes, the way she looked at him like she saw straight through every wall he’d ever put up.

And now, here it was again, in the midst of the chaos: a reminder of what mattered.

He swiped open the message, already feeling the tension in his chest ease just a fraction.

I wish I could come down and find you, but I can't stay. Paps outside. I’ll see you at home <3

His eyes caught on a single word. Home.

For a second, it didn’t feel like the locker room around him existed. That word hit harder than anything else—unexpected, simple, and strangely grounding. His place wasn’t just a crash pad or an escape for her anymore; it was home. To her. That realization settled somewhere deep, quieting the noise of everything else.

He typed back, his fingers moving almost on instinct.

Anything, baby. I got you. Can't wait xx

The response felt effortless, not because it was routine but because it was true. They’d had this conversation many times before, and they had these covert plans to meet after the chaos. The same texts and soft promises whispered in a world that didn’t quite feel ready to see them.

But even now, with everything out in the open, nothing about the core of it had changed. They still had to navigate the same moments, the same carefully coordinated endings.

He stood, grabbing his gear. The familiar weight of his hockey bag slung over his shoulder was grounding, a reminder of everything that hadn’t changed.

“Off to play house already?” one of the guys called from across the room, his grin wicked.

Another chimed in, “Cardio plans for my boooooy!”

“Yeah, don’t forget your stamina, Stark.”

The room erupted into laughter, voices overlapping with whistles and exaggerated winks.

Cregan didn’t stop. Didn’t roll his eyes or even glance back. He just held up a middle finger as he walked, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Because, yeah, they could laugh. They could tease. They didn’t know what it felt like to have her waiting on the other side of all this noise.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, the chaos of the locker room faded behind him. The sky stretched wide and endless above the parking lot, the stars faint against the glow of the city. He pulled his bag higher on his cramped shoulder, the load of it barely registering. His mind was already miles away.

Home. That word clung to him, nestled somewhere deep in his chest. It wasn’t just a place anymore—it was her. It was Claere. And knowing that made everything else—the game, the chaos, the cameras—worth it.

He unlocked his truck and tossed his bag into the bed, letting out a long breath. But as he leaned back against the driver’s door, the quiet brought memories with it, as if the night itself wanted to remind him just how far he’d fallen.

Cregan Stark had it fucking bad, and he knew it.

He was done for from the moment he’d first noticed her—really noticed her. Not the way everyone else did, with their rumours and their whispers, their tabloid snapshots and snide commentary. No, for him, it had been something else entirely.

It was her first year at the quad. He remembered the exact moment because it was impossible to forget. He’d been sitting in his truck, waiting out the morning rush, his morning green juice spilling into the cupholder and his patience thinner than usual.

Then she pulled up. That absurd little white scooter stuttered into the lot a few rows ahead of him, a stark contrast to the roaring engines of bikes and cars around it. She unclipped her helmet and shook out her hair, so unhurried and deft, the sunshine catching in the silvery strands as they tumbled free. He would be lying if he said it wasn't playing out in faded hues and slow motion to him. She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her necklace, and—gods above—spread pink lip balm with surgical precision using the side mirror as her guide. Popped her lips into a pout.

He should’ve looked away, should’ve minded his business. He honestly couldn't. She had him entirely for a moment. He would've fought another person through blood, rain and mud for this unfamiliar girl.

She pointed at her reflection, mouthed something—“You’re not a quitter”—and nodded confidently, as if the girl staring back at her needed convincing. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she rummaged in her bag, pulled out a breath mint, and placed it gently on the pavement in front of a trail of ants.

And just like that, she was gone, walking toward the quad with her bag slung over one shoulder, peering into her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d left a grown man sitting slack-jawed in his truck.

Gods-fucking-dammit. He’d been a goner for that fruitcake from that moment on.

Back then, he’d told himself it was just a passing fascination. A moment of curiosity, nothing more. Another pretty Targaryen chick, nothing less. But the memory stayed with him, surfacing at the most inconvenient times, dragging his thoughts back to her in ways he couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t until much later—until her quiet, steady presence started to fill spaces he didn’t know were empty—that he realized the truth.

Claere Velaryon wasn’t just someone he’d noticed. She was someone he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Ever since then, he started paying attention to his surroundings more often. He picked out the clack of her strappy sandals in the halls, and noticed how her earrings changed every week—tiny hoops, dainty studs, dangling charms. Brown was her favourite colour; it showed in her clothes, her notebooks, and even the little leather straps on her bag. The way her braided silver hair caught the light, the delicate gold jewellery adorning her fingers as they moved across a notebook in slow, precise sketches—it was maddening. Fascinating. She was chipping away at him every moment she lingered.

A simple flick of her wrist as she shaded something in her sketchbook made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t explain. He didn’t even care what she was drawing; he just wanted to sit there, unnoticed, and watch her hands.

It was sick, he thought, the way he’d tailored his life around her. He’d signed up for a mind-numbingly boring horticulture elective just to be in the same room as her. His teammates had laughed for days about it—“Cregan Stark, the ice king, planting daisies?”—but none of it mattered. Not when she sat three rows ahead of him, her head bent over her notes, utterly oblivious to the chaos she caused in his chest. And every day, he longed to sit by her side and tuck that little tendril of silvery hair behind her ear.

Even at the rink, his sanctuary, she’d wormed her way into his thoughts. She rarely came to see Jace practice, but when she did, it was like the entire world shifted. He’d skate harder, faster, pulling off moves he barely practised, all in the hope that she might look up and watch him in his element. But Claere never seemed to care. She’d stretch out on her back over the benches, headphones in, world off, eyes closed. And yet, the mere sight of her was enough to light him up from the inside out.

But the thing that really drove him insane—truly made his brain short-circuit—was how she tried. She wasn’t exactly outgoing, but she made an effort. He’d see her in the library, offering an overly pleasant smile to someone in her study group, only for it to be met with an awkward nod. Or sometimes in the mess hall, where she’d hover near a table of classmates, tray in hand, like she was working up the nerve to sit down—just to turn away when no one waved her over.

He couldn’t understand it. Why did no one want to talk to this gorgeous girl? She was right there, looking like something out of a storybook, and yet everyone acted like she didn’t exist.

“I don’t get it,” he had muttered, half to himself, when his friends had finally gotten to having lunch. Claere had been perched at a table by the window, fiddling with a ring on her finger, her tray untouched.

“Get what?” his teammate, Wil, asked, not looking up from his fries.

“Why nobody talks to her,” Cregan had said, gesturing vaguely in Claere’s direction. “She’s… I mean, look at her. She’s—”

“Intense,” Wil had finished, shrugging.

Cregan frowned. “Intense?”

“You know, quiet. Standoffish. It’s like she doesn’t want to be here. Like she's above us all.” His teammate took another bite of his burger, speaking around the mouthful. “And then there’s the whole… Targaryen thing. People don’t know what to say to someone like that.”

Cregan had bristled. “Someone like what?”

Wil had shrugged again. “Rich. Loose screws. Scary-pretty.”

Scary? Cregan glanced at her again, noting the way her face softened as she leaned into her palm, absentmindedly tracing circles on her notebook.

There was nothing scary about her. Not in the way Wil meant, anyway. Sure, she was different. Quiet where others were loud. Graceful where others fumbled. She had a way of carrying herself that made her stand apart, like she was cut from a different cloth. Maybe she was. But none of that made her scary.

“She’s not scary,” Cregan said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

Wil raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Hit a nerve, Cap?”

Cregan ignored him, his mind circling back to something else. “What about Jace, then? Why doesn’t he get this treatment? He’s just as rich, just as Targaryen, and no one seems to care.”

“Jace’s different,” Wil said with a shrug. “He’s always in your face, gets along with everyone, probably swallowed two loudspeakers. You know how it is. People don’t question you when you’re easy to like.”

Easy to like. The words sat uncomfortably in Cregan’s chest.

His gaze returned to Claere. Her soft smile lingered as she scribbled something in her notebook, completely unaware of the weight of the judgments thrown her way. Scary-pretty. What a load of bullshit. If anything, the way people talked about her was the real problem. Not her. Screw them.

“Yeah, well,” Cregan muttered, pushing his plate away, “some people wouldn’t know real class if it smacked them in the face.”

Wil snorted, but Cregan didn’t give him a chance to reply. His attention was back on Claere, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. Scary? No, she wasn’t scary. She was just different. And maybe that’s what scared everyone else.

He couldn’t even hide his big, fat crush anymore. Whenever the mess hall went quiet, the way it always did when she walked in, he’d find his seat with his friends, carefully angled just to catch a glimpse of her. And Jace—observant, infuriating, son of a bitch Jace—noticed everything.

“You’re disgusting, Cap,” Jace announced, shattering Cregan’s thoughts like glass.

“What?” Cregan muttered, dragging himself back to the pub, where the beer was warm, the lights were dim, and his best friend was clearly gearing up to humiliate him. A table beside them began to sound much like the laugh track in his disgraceful love life.

“You. With my little sister.” Jace gestured lazily with his bottle, smirking. “You’re disgusting. It’s like watching a wolf drool over a lamb.”

“Shut up,” Cregan snapped, leaning back against the booth. He tipped his head back, glaring at the ceiling. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh no? Not like what?” Jace leaned in, mock-serious now. “Not like you stare at her every time she’s within fifty feet?”

“I'm observant. She’s just not as weird as people make her out to be,” Cregan said sharply, ignoring the heat climbing up his neck.

“Who said anything about weird?” Jace’s grin was comically wolfish. “She’s whimsical. Isn’t that what you called her?”

Cregan slammed his beer down on the table, foam spilling over the side. “I swear, Velaryon—”

“What? You gonna fight me?” Jace barked a laugh, tossing his arm over the back of the booth. “Please. You’re too busy writing her name in little hearts in your pretty pink notebook.”

“Fuck. Off.” Cregan’s ears were burning now. He reached across the table, dipped his finger in his beer, and flicked the foam at Jace’s smug face.

“Oi!” Jace swatted the droplets away, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “I’m just saying, mate. Everyone else avoids her like she’s radioactive, and you’re out here choosing the worst electives and peacocking on the ice like you’re trying to land a National Geographic-level mating ritual.”

Cregan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face, but there was no real malice behind it. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because I’m the one person who calls you out on your bullshit,” Jace shot back, looking far too pleased with himself. “Speaking of bullshit, when are you actually going to talk to her? Or is this just gonna be one long, tragic love story where you pine away while she ignores your existence?”

Cregan opened his mouth to retort, but Jace held up a hand.

“Wait—no. Don’t answer that. I’ve got a better idea.” His grin turned wicked. “Party. My place. This Saturday. Just the guys and their dates. And... I'll ask Claere to come.”

Cregan blinked, his throat suddenly dry. “What?”

“You heard me.” Jace leaned back, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’ll bring Claere, you bring the booze. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of idiots hanging out, and you can finally stop making heart eyes at her from a distance. No pressure, no theatrics.”

“That’s…” Cregan started, then trailed off. The words finally sank in. Was it a bad idea? Probably. Was it a terrible idea? No. It was something else entirely: a chance.

“That’s not the worst plan,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair.

He stared at his beer, his pulse thundering. It felt like someone had lit his insides on fire. He wasn’t sure what scared him more—the thought of Claere being there or the hope that, for once, maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Exactly,” Jace said, smirking. “I'm a fuckin' wizard. My pleasure.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Didn’t have to. Your face says it all.” Jace mimed a dreamy expression, batting his lashes.

Cregan smirked to himself, Jace’s relentless teasing still echoing in his mind. For all his best friend’s antics, the guy wasn’t wrong. That had been a moment—a real moment. A chance. Back then, it had all felt so simple, so impossibly far away. The only block in the road seemed to be the courage to talk to her.

Now, as his truck rolled toward the entrance of his building, reality hit him like a body check on the ice. The flash of cameras erupted before he even reached the gate, a wave of chaotic light that made his head throb. The photographers swarmed the sidewalk, their lenses gleaming like predators’ eyes in the night. The cameras followed his every move like they could peel back the tinted windows and see through him.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, navigating the truck slowly and carefully, his jaw clenched. The last thing he needed was to give these vultures another story by running someone over. The beams from their cameras flickered in his mirrors, disorienting him.

Someone darted closer, their camera barely missing his side mirror. He muttered a curse under his breath and leaned on the horn, easing through the gates as they finally slid open.

He finally made it into the underground parking, the echoes of the chaos fading as the gate sealed shut behind him.

“Like hell you're all going to get to me,” he muttered, parking in his designated spot.

When he stepped out, Kennet, his building’s elderly doorman, was already waiting with his usual calm, holding the entrance door open. Kennet gave him a pointed look, nodding toward the commotion outside.

“Your girl brought them here,” he said with the faintest smile, his voice low and amused.

“Yeah,” Cregan said, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. He fished out his key fob and handed it over. “Thanks anyway, sir.”

“Anytime,” Kennet replied with a polite nod, tipping his hat.

Cregan stepped inside the building, and the air shifted. The noise, the flashes, the chaos—all of it disappeared behind the heavy glass doors. His boots echoed softly against the pristine floors as he made his way to the elevator.

As the doors slid shut, he felt his pulse settle. And then the anticipation kicked in.

The thought of Claere waiting for him upstairs lit something electric in his chest, just like the first time at the party. It had been a few hours since they’d texted, but the idea of seeing her—really seeing her—sent his mind spinning. He leaned against the elevator wall, conjuring up a dozen images of her: the way she’d smile when she opened the door, the way she'd clap for his victory, share a kiss, the warmth of her touch when she wrapped her arms around him.

He could feel the ghost of her fingertips already, his heart racing as the elevator climbed higher. And higher.

But as the doors slid open, the cold hard facts crept back in. Those photographers outside? This wasn’t the same as it used to be. Back then, when things were simpler, no one cared who he brought to Jace’s parties or why. But now? Now, this was different. Harder. More complicated.

He stepped into the hallway, steadying himself as he reached his door. This was bigger than anything they’d faced before. But for her? For Claere? He was ready to face it all over again.

He turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Maybe this was an outright terrible idea. He had a lot of them, but this one was possibly the worst.

The tequila in Cregan's cup stared back at him like a challenge, daring him to go for another round. He downed his third—or was it fourth?—shot, wincing as the burn of alcohol clawed its way down his throat. He sucked in a breath and leaned back against the couch, trying to summon some kind of confidence. The party was in full swing, the music a deafening thrum that rattled his chest. Bodies pressed in around him, their movements hazy with the shimmer of dresses and dim lighting.

Maybe this was what rock bottom felt like—half-drunk on a couch, a girl perched on his lap for reasons that didn’t feel entirely clear, and no sign of the one person he actually wanted to see.

The party had started off promising enough. Jace had hyped him up earlier at night, cracking jokes and shoving a drink into his hand. “She’ll be here, man. Nine. Claere doesn’t flake, she’s just... punctual. You know, painfully so.”

But now, it was 9:15. Then 9:25. And every time the door opened, it wasn’t her. He’d stopped pretending to care about who walked in.

The girl on his lap—Sophie? Sophia? Who the fuck knew—twirled a lock of her hair, the motion somehow managing to be both coy and bored. “You’re really broody. Lighten up,” she said with a little pout, trailing a finger down his chest. “Parties are supposed to make you... un-broody.”

Cregan mustered a tight smile, muttering something noncommital, not trusting himself to say much more. He shifted under her weight, uncomfortable in more ways than one. Across the room, Jace was holding court with a group of partygoers, his laugh carrying easily over the thrum of the music. A card fluttered from his mouth as he lost a round of Suck and Blow, and he burst into laughter, slapping his knee.

“Dude, you can’t drop it! That’s the one rule!” Jace hollered, barely managing to stay upright.

Cregan tried to laugh along, but it sounded forced, even to his own ears. He glanced at the door again, his heart sinking further with every empty second.

Then, just as he was about to give up hope, at around half past nine, the door opened.

Claere stepped in, her silhouette framed by the light from the hallway. She wore a simple dress—nothing flashy, but it fit her perfectly, brushing just above her ankles, baby blue, billowing—and a pair of delicate heels. Her hair was left loose, like curled silver curtains around her, her face in a faint flush that rose as she took in the room. In her hands, she held a box.

Cregan froze, his breath catching in his chest.

She hesitated at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the chaos—the laughing crowd, the spilt drinks, the pounding music. Her lips pressed together, her grip tightening on the box as if it might anchor her. She looked so out of place it almost hurt. She didn’t belong here.

No, that wasn’t it. She belonged everywhere, but this scene—the loud crowd, the half-drunken revelry, the boy on the couch who couldn’t stop screwing up—wasn’t good enough for her.

“Claaaerie!” Jace’s voice cut through the noise as he stumbled toward her, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He wasn’t as drunk as he looked—Cregan could tell by the way he managed to thread through the crowd without knocking over a single cup.

“Oh, finally. I'm so drunk right now.”

Claere blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “You said to come late,” she said quietly.

Cregan watched the interaction with a hollow pit forming in his stomach. He had waited all night for her, and now he felt like some idiot kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, with another girl on his lap.

“Right, right! And you did that way too well!” Jace exclaimed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. He squinted at the box in her hands. “Wait, what’s that? Is that pot? Please tell me it’s pot.”

Claere tilted her head, unamused. She lifted the lid open slightly. “Mom told me to bring brownies.”

Jace groaned, leaning heavily on her. He took the box out of her hands and chucked it straight into the fridge. “Gods, Claere. Daemon would’ve stuffed weed in it at least.”

“He suggested,” she said with a shrug. Her mouth twitched into something resembling a smile, and Cregan’s chest ached. It wasn’t fair, how effortlessly she could cut through the noise with the smallest expression.

Snickering, Jace plucked a pre-filled plastic shot glass from a nearby table and thrust it into her hands. “Here. Bottoms up.”

“I’m not legal,” she pointed out, eyeing the shot.

“Someone here is. Shut up and do me proud,” Jace said, grinning.

Claere hesitated, then took a cautious sip. She winced, shuddering violently, but didn’t spit it out. She hacked up a cough, waving her hand under her scrunched nose which made Jace burst out into raucous laughter.

From across the room, unable to stop staring at her, Cregan’s chest twisted in a way that made him want to both laugh and scream. She was here. She was finally here. Can you die of proximity? Even somewhat drunk and confident, it felt like he was about to.

But then her eyes landed on him and he swore his heart tripped over itself. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she glanced at the girl on his lap, who was leaning in to whisper something in his ear, sliding her arm around his shoulder. Claere’s gaze lingered for only a moment before she looked away as if she'd seen too much, her expression as uninterested as ever.

Panic surged through Cregan like a jolt of electricity, a sudden, visceral reminder that this was exactly the moment he’d been hoping for—and he was unprepared. With another fucking girl on his lap. As he scrambled to his feet, entirely too fast for his unsteady body to follow, the world tilted, and he promptly flopped back onto the couch with all the grace of a baby deer.

The girl next to him giggled, patting his arm like he was a child trying and failing at something cute. The embarrassment was immediate and scorching. He didn’t even look her way—didn’t dare. His attention was fixed on Claere.

Cregan’s stomach twisted painfully when her gaze flicked his way again, startled. She saw him—oh, she saw him, alright—sprawled gracelessly on the couch, the girl next to him still giggling at something he didn’t hear. His heart sank like a stone when Claere’s expression shifted. Cool. Detached. Unimpressed.

He wanted to disappear. Or rewind. Or do something. But he was rooted to the spot, a growing knot of shame, frustration, and longing keeping him frozen.

Jace, either oblivious or brilliantly strategic, started ushering Claere toward the balcony. “Hey, so. Have you seen the view from here? It’s like fifty floors up. Amazing. You can see the whole city.”

Claere allowed herself to be led away, and for a split second, she glanced back at Cregan. It wasn’t a long look. It wasn’t anything profound. But it gutted him all the same.

Her lips moved in a brief murmur—something to Jace—but Cregan didn’t hear it. It could've been minutes after, but his brain was stuck on the way her earrings caught the light and how much he hated himself for letting her see him like this.

The kick to Cregan’s shin was not gentle.

“You dumbass,” Jace sighed.

Cregan glared up at him. “What?”

“Snap out of it.” Jace leaned closer, his face barely serious enough to be sober. “She’s on the balcony. Alone. Do something. Sober up first.”

Cregan groaned, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Yeah, sure. After you go talk to her.” Jace nudged him again, harder this time. “Do it. Or I’ll do it for you—and make it weird.”

That was enough to get him moving. Groaning again, he pushed himself off the couch, weaving through the crowd toward the kitchen like a man on a mission—or possibly one being sent to his doom.

The mission: sober the fuck up.

He chugged a near-full gallon of water, the cold shocking his system as he tipped his head back. His stomach sloshed in protest, but he ignored it, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. Chewing furiously, he stumbled into the bathroom, fumbling with the lock.

Inside, he inspected the damage in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his breath foul enough to make him wince, and his shirt—Gods, how had it always been this wrinkled?

He turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face, scrubbing at it like it might erase his lingering tipsiness. “Get it together, Stark,” he muttered under his breath, finger-brushing his teeth with a dab of toothpaste from the sink’s edge.

By the time he re-buttoned his shirt and smoothed it down, he almost looked like himself again. Almost. His reflection stared back at him, still wasted and slightly flushed. You can do this, he told himself. It’s just a conversation. You're the fucking alpha. You got this.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he didn’t even have to search. She was still there, standing on the balcony, her skin seizing the glow of the city lights, hair slightly weaving with the breeze.

She was devastating. Heartbreaking. Breathtaking. And she was still alone.

Cregan grabbed two cans of soda from the counter—one for her, one to give his hands something to do—and started toward the balcony. His heart pounded like he was stepping onto the ice for the biggest game of his life. Gathering every ounce of courage, he approached with steady steps, balancing the sodas. His nerves must’ve betrayed him because his toe caught the edge of the balcony frame, sending him pitching forward onto his knee.

The cans clattered to the floor. For a split second, Cregan just knelt there, staring at the sodas rolling away like they were escaping his dignity. This could easily be his supervillain genesis.

“Oh, gosh. Are you okay?” Claere’s voice cut through his self-loathing spiral, soft and startled. She crouched beside him, her hand settling on his shoulder, light as a feather but searing into his skin like a brand.

His brain short-circuited. Every nerve in his body screamed, and for one horrifying moment, he thought his soul might actually leave him. He jolted upright with the force of a man fleeing a crime scene, flailing to regain some semblance of control.

“Hey-ey-ey!” His laugh was too loud, too forced. He jabbed the air a couple of times like a boxer warming up, then, because his body clearly wasn’t done betraying him, he dropped into a single, stiff jumping jack. “Tripped and fell for you, didn’t I?”

Claere’s brows arched delicately. Her mouth opened, and for a second, he thought she might laugh—but instead, she let out a quiet, sceptical hum. “'Kay.”

Cregan’s heart plummeted through the floor. Idiot, idiot, idiot. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to salvage what was left of his pride. “Sorry. Just... didn’t watch my step.”

Claere’s expression softened, and she straightened, brushing her dress. “It happens,” she said simply, like she wasn’t watching him fall apart in real-time.

When she turned back to the balcony, leaning against the railing with that same poise she carried everywhere, Cregan wanted to both thank and curse the gods. He joined her, not too close, but close enough that he could catch the faint scent of something floral—probably her perfume. He didn’t dare ask.

His eyes slid her way, the urge to glance at her irresistible. Those violet eyes, one look and his knees would buckle again. So his gaze inevitably dropped to her hands. Her rings had changed again. One was thicker than the delicate bands she usually wore, with a subtle green gem at its centre. Another, on her pinky, looked like two tiny gold snakes entwined.

Does she pick these out every day? Does she have a collection? How does she decide which ones to wear? His thoughts tumbled over one another, but all of them circled back to a singular fact: she was breaking him apart, and she didn’t even know it.

“You like rings?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Claere turned her head slightly, regarding him with mild curiosity. “Um, yes. I don't like my hands empty, I guess.” She twisted one of them absently. “This one’s my favourite.” She held out her hand, the golden dragonfly ring glinting faintly in the light. He'd seen it on her before. “It’s a dragonfly. Symbolizes new beginnings.”

Cregan swallowed hard. He wanted to hold that hand. Kiss that hand. Pull her closer. Kiss her—and he shook himself out of it. He managed a swift smile.

“That’s... cool. Really cool.”

“Thank you.” Her lips curved into the smallest smile, and his chest felt like it might explode.

For a moment, there was silence. Cregan searched for something, anything, to say, but everything that came to mind sounded stupid or desperate. He settled for leaning casually against the railing, imitating her posture, though his arms felt too long and his shoulders too stiff. His head was still buzzing, partly from all the confidence-boosting drinks but mostly from her.

Claere broke the silence first. “That girl from earlier…” Her voice was light, but there was a guarded undertone. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Cregan choked. “No!” The word came out too fast, too loud, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair. “No, definitely not. Ha. Not my girlfriend. I'm not... yeah.”

Claere tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a soft, “Alright,” and turned back to the city lights. From their vantage point, the streets looked like glowing microchips, an intricate network of lights and motion that stretched endlessly.

Cregan felt the silence settle again between them, but this time, it wasn’t stifling. It was tentative, like a bridge suspended by threads, fragile yet holding. His nerves were frayed, his thoughts looping in a chaotic spiral, but there was something disarmingly steady about Claere’s presence. For a moment, he thought he might just enjoy the quiet—until his mouth decided otherwise.

“You know, actually,” he started, the words spilling out before his brain could catch up, “you’re... really awesome.”

Claere turned to him, her brow lifting in surprise. “Am I?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, you’re... you’re beautiful, too. Really beautiful. But, uh...” He trailed off, realizing with dawning horror where this was going. His brain scrambled to pull the handbrake, but the alcohol had other plans. “It's always. Not just now. I just think you’re kind of... perfect? In a normal way. Not weird or anything.”

She blinked at him, startled, her lips parting slightly. “Oh.”

And that was it. That one syllable. That soft, quiet oh—like she didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt—that sent his already precarious control careening over the edge.

As if preordained by the devil himself, Cregan’s stomach twisted, the telltale churn of nausea bubbling up with alarming speed. “Oh, gods,” he muttered, doubling over. “No, no, no—”

“What’s wrong?” Claere asked, stepping toward him, her voice sharp with concern.

He didn’t answer, too busy stumbling toward the nearest flowerpot. The retching came in violent waves, hunching entirely into himself, humiliating and unstoppable. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, and he groaned, eyes watering, clutching the edge of the planter for dear life.

Claere was beside him in an instant, kneeling on the concrete. A hand stroked his spine gently, steadying him as he retched again, this time less savagely. When it was over, she rose to her feet, returning moments later with a glass of water.

“Here,” she said. She crouched again, offering him the glass. “Sip slowly.”

Cregan took the glass, his hands trembling. He swished the water in his mouth before spitting into the flowerpot, grimacing. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, his voice raw and thick with shame. “Why me? Why, gods, why?”

Claere’s hand resumed its place on his back, rubbing gentle circles. “You’re fine. Happens to the best of us.”

“Not really,” he mumbled, still hunched over. “Or in front of...” His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d been about to say. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ground to swallow him whole.

“In front of the carnations?” she asked lightly, almost teasing.

“In front of you,” he admitted, barely louder than a whisper. His stomach clenched, though whether it was from the lingering nausea or the sheer mortification, he couldn’t tell.

Claere laughed softly, a sound that felt more like an exhale than a noise. “So much it made you barf?” she asked, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

“The shots,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands. “Definitely the shots.”

“Okay,” she said, the amusement evident in her voice as she retrieved the empty glass from him. “Do you want to stand up?”

Her hand shifted to his shoulder, helping him to his feet. For a moment, Cregan wavered, the spinning world around him making his knees weak, but she steadied him with surprising strength.

“You’re so nice,” he said, his voice gruff and still a little slurred. His gaze met hers, blurry but sincere. “And so fuckin' gorgeous. I love your rings, too...”

Claere let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she hooked her arm through his. “Let’s get you sitting down before you take another dive.”

Cregan leaned into her, her arm the only thing keeping him steady as the world continued to tilt under the haze of alcohol. The sharp edges of his humiliation faded, replaced by the quiet lure of her presence—the warmth of her touch, the faint scent of her perfume, the glimmer of amusement she didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t sure what burned hotter, the lingering shame or the realization that even at his worst, she hadn’t let go.

Regret always hit hardest in the morning. Cregan woke with a start, to sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains. His head throbbed like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and his mouth was a desert, his tongue stuck to the roof of it like glue. Groaning, he rolled over, clutching the soft covers closer—and stilled.

This wasn’t his room.

The walls were muted green, and the trim, a soft brown, reminded him of some forest retreat. There was a small balcony visible through the open curtains, looking out over a sea of treetops swaying in the morning breeze. The bed was far too big for his apartment, the sheets too floral, too soft, too... feminine.

And he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Fuck no, this is not happening.

Panic lurched him upright—bad idea. His head spun, and he clutched his temples, groaning again as the events of last night teased the edges of his memory. So blurry. So unwanted.

“Morning, Cap!”

The voice—cheerful, bordering on obnoxious—came from the door. Cregan squinted to see Jace leaning against the frame, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Cregan rubbed his temples again.

“What the—where—why am I—” His words tumbled over each other like tripping toddlers.

“Don’t hurt yourself, vomit comet,” Jace said, casually strolling in. “We drove you back to our place last night. You were drunk as a skunk, started belting George Michael in the driveway, and insisted on sleeping in Claere’s room. With her.”

Oh, gods. It hit him like a sledgehammer. Flashes of last night came back in blurred scenes: the car ride home. His gods-awful singing. The flowerpot. The balcony. And then, stumbling over stairs, standing outside her door, swaying like an idiot, declaring to Jace and anyone who’d listen that he had to sleep next to Claere because, and he’d quote himself now, “the world would just make sense that way.”

“Just kill me,” he muttered, pulling the covers over his face.

Lingering just behind Jace was Claere. She hovered by the door, breaking his heart with that nightdress of hers, looking unsure whether to step in or vanish into thin air. When he peeked over the covers, their eyes met briefly before she glanced away, cheeks pink. Jace noticed her hesitation and, because that cheeky fucker thrived on chaos, decided to stoke the fire.

“Well,” Jace said, clapping his hands together, “I’ll leave you two babies to figure everything out.” He flashed a brazen grin and turned to leave.

“Jace, don’t you fucking dare—” Cregan started, but the traitor was already halfway down the hall, cackling. “I’m serious, asshole!” Cregan called after him, voice cracking. Jace’s only response was a loud, taunting laugh.

Claere stepped into the room, hesitant but steady, like she wasn’t sure if she was intruding. In her palm rested a small white pill, a painkiller.

“Good morning,” she said softly, holding it out to him.

Cregan wanted to sink deeper into the mattress like it might swallow him whole and save him from this mortification. He reached for the pill, avoiding her eyes as though direct contact might fry whatever remained of his dignity. Dry-swallowing it, he grimaced at the bitter aftertaste.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, the word barely audible, his throat dry as sandpaper.

“You can use my bathroom,” Claere offered, her voice uncertain, a thread of politeness holding it together. “There’s fresh towels, soap—feel free to use anything.”

“I think I’m just gonna get out of your hair,” Cregan cut in, running a hand through his tangled hair, every movement weighed down by shame and the dull throb in his skull.

Before Claere could respond, a new voice rang out, loud and entirely unwelcome.

“Wash yo’ stanky ass, son! You’re messing up the place!”

Lucerys, Jace’s younger brother, popped his head into the doorway with a grin wide enough to rival a Cheshire cat. He didn’t linger, though, darting off before Cregan could summon the strength to retort. His cackling echoed down the hall, each note like a nail in the coffin of Cregan’s pride.

Groaning, Cregan swung his legs off the bed, moving with all the grace of a crapulous toddler. His muscles protested, his joints creaked, and the dull ache behind his eyes felt like a jackhammer trying to carve through his brain.

Claere shifted on her feet, her fingers toying with the collar of her nightie. “There's a toothbrush for you, too,” she said, quiet. There was a strange softness in her tone like she was offering more than just towels—some unspoken reassurance that this wasn’t as bad as it felt.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, his palm catching the faint stubble on his jaw. “Yeah. Thank you. I’ll... uh, clean up before I head out. Thank you.”

“Three times the thanks,” she said, smiling a little.

He cleared his throat. “Meant it.”

He shuffled toward the adjoining bathroom, each step heavy, like walking through quicksand. The door clicked shut behind him, and he let out a long, shaky breath, his head falling forward against the cool porcelain of the sink.

The reflection in the mirror was a sight to behold: bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair sticking up at every angle, and a faint red mark on his forehead that he didn’t even want to begin dissecting. Absolutely filthy. What fool had he made of himself?

“You fucking idiot,” he muttered at his reflection, the word laced with all the self-loathing he could muster.

Cregan splashed more cold water onto his face, the icy shock grounding him momentarily from the swirling storm in his head. He leaned heavily on the sink, letting water drip from his chin as fragments of last night replayed once again, more clearly, in sharp, humiliating bursts.

The balcony. The flowerpot. The singing. The driveway. Her face.

“No,” he groaned aloud, gripping the edge of the sink like it might steady his spiralling thoughts.

He tried to piece together what had happened, but every memory hit like a sucker punch. Cornering himself into her room, shirtless and half-conscious, while Claere had been all soft words and calm gestures, trying to coax him to rest. His drunken, slurred insistence that he’d rather sleep there—with her. What else had he said? Something about her eyes? Her butt? Something so embarrassingly sincere that even in his haze, he knew it had crossed a line.

He rubbed his face hard, as if sheer force could scrub the memory away, and grabbed one of the neatly folded towels on the rack. It was pink, fluffy, and faintly smelled like lavender—subtle but unmistakably hers.

With the towel pressed to his face, he took a deep breath, letting the scent calm him. He finally looked around the bathroom, his nerves gradually giving way to a strange sort of awe.

It wasn’t just a bathroom—it was her bathroom. Three months ago, this would've sent him to a stroke. The tiles were an earthy green, complemented by dark brown accents. A tiny potted plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves glossy and thriving, and the counter was meticulously organized. A small porcelain dish held a few rings, ones she must’ve taken off last night.

He couldn’t help himself; his eyes lingered on them, grinning. The dragonfly ring caught the light, the delicate details were more intricate up close. New beginnings.

His gaze shifted to the mirror, where the faint outline of a scratched smiley face peeked through the fog left from his shower. It was uneven like she’d etched it carelessly but with purpose. Gods, this girl.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, still nursing the remnants of his hangover—and the crushing weight of his own embarrassment. The room was empty, golden light filtering through sheer curtains tied back in perfect symmetry. For a second, he just stood there, taking it in.

Her room was impossibly tidy. It was the kind of immaculate that only came from an army of helpers because no college kid lived like this on their own. But the more he looked, the more her he saw in it. This was Claere untold.

Her desk was pristine, glistening oak, but not barren. There was a stack of botany textbooks, their covers faded and worn like they’d been thumbed through countless times. He drifted closer, eyes catching on a half-filled page in one, the writing neat and slanted around a diagram of a cross-section of a stem, penned in a dark ink that somehow suited her.

And then there were the books. Of course, there were books. Tomes. Some were glossy, clearly fantasy or romance, their spines gleaming with titles he’d seen in a hundred social media posts. Others were thicker, heavier—textbooks or academic volumes, one of them bookmarked halfway through with a folded ticket stub. His hand itched to flip it open, but he shoved both hands into his pockets instead.

Her jewellery was arranged in a delicate tray by the edge of the desk. Rings, thin bracelets, small earrings that sparkled. Definitely diamonds or rubies. Some looked dainty enough to crush under the weight of his clumsy fingers, and yet they suited her perfectly. Like her. Elegant, expensive, untouchable.

And then his eyes landed on something else. A small stack of photo stubs on a decorated, large corkboard—some with dates, some with locations scrawled in the corners. The Amalfi Coast, Kyoto, Antibes, Mallorca, Croatia, Goa, Edinburgh, Kamchatka. One was recent, a kimono-clad Claere feeding a piece of sushi to little Viserys who had his mouth open. One of Jace and her, no older than eleven, making outlandish duck faces before a rocky cliff. One in a fancy apartment with a sea view and all the family, even Daemon, beaming for the camera in matching bathrobes. One was an expensive-looking yacht over crystal waters, all four brothers in swimsuits, squinting against the sunlight, Jace holding up a fish like it was a trophy. And there she was, off to the side, an arm slung around Luke, grinning in a wide-brimmed hat, her smile so natural it felt like it was meant to be caught on camera.

And then he saw it.

A different photo, tucked into the corner of her dresser mirror, slightly bent at the edges. Oh, he was not meant to see this at all. She wore a tight, strappy red dress, one that made his mouth go dry and his brain go fuzzy. Her lips were painted to match, her hair loose in soft waves, violet eyes striking, and even though she wasn’t smiling—just staring into the camera with a serene expression—it made something in his chest squeeze tight.

So, she could be sexy, too. He gulped, pulling his gaze away as his ears burned. He suddenly felt like he was intruding on something too personal like he’d caught her in a moment she hadn’t meant to share.

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck and wandered back to the bed, where his watch sat glinting innocently on the nightstand. As he bent to grab it, he caught his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His hair was damp, flumping down in wet curls, and the towel slung low on his hips didn’t help him look any less ridiculous. But he caught himself grinning anyway.

She’d let him into her world—if only accidentally. And he was falling for her more with every stupid little detail he noticed.

Sliding the watch onto his wrist, he glanced back at the desk one last time, then forced himself to straighten. No more gawking, no more lingering. He needed to pull himself together before she—or worse, Jace—came back and caught him acting like an idiot.

Still, as he tied the drawstring on his borrowed sweats and reached for his shirt, he couldn’t stop the thought: She’s incredible. Every part of her is incredible. And no amount of awkwardness or hangover-induced mortification could change that.

Cregan followed the sound of voices down the wide, sunlit corridor. His socked feet padded over the marble floors, the faint scent of something buttery and warm teasing the air. And his stomach. As he rounded the corner, the dining room came into view—a sprawling table laden with plates of eggs, toast, pastries, and an array of juices in glass pitchers. A subtle reminder that these people lived in a different world. On a Sunday like this, at this time, he'd be out the door, running his miles.

The Targaryen kids were scattered around the table, each in their own universe. Joff and Luke were locked in a heated video game battle on their phones, their thumbs flying over the screens, accompanied by the occasional, “Eat this!” and “You wish, loser!” Whereas Jace was seated across from a very tiny and very serious Viserys, who looked all of five years old. The kid clutched a spoon like a sceptre, scowling at Jace, who was sneakily stealing bacon off his plate one strip at a time.

“Jace, give it back!” Viserys whine-screamed at Jace, who grinned unapologetically.

“You snooze, you lose.” Jace wiggled the strip of bacon before biting into it.

Claere sat a little apart from them, scrolling idly through her phone, her chin propped in one hand, both bored and tired. Her silver hair was loosely tied back, and she was still in something soft and casual—a far cry from the glamorous red dress etched into Cregan’s brain.

For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, watching them. It wasn’t the scene itself that hit him—it was the ease of it. The casual chaos in the sunlit room, the implicit rhythm of siblings who knew how to push each other’s buttons without real malice. The way Jace leaned over to swipe a croissant next, dodging Viserys’s attempt to slap his hand away. He never had this growing up.

“Hey!” Jace’s voice snapped him out of it. “Look who finally made it. Breakfast is served.”

Every head turned his way, even Viserys, who blinked up at him like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed.

“Morning,” Cregan said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. His gaze darted to Claere, but she barely glanced up from her phone. His stomach dropped.

“Good morning, buttercup!” Luke grinned, still not looking up from his game.

“Didn’t think you’d ever wake up after last night,” Joff added, smirking.

Cregan shuffled toward the empty seat next to Claere, trying not to think too hard about the warmth of her so close. “Still here,” he muttered.

“Alive, somehow,” Jace said, smirking. “Barely.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Cregan shot back, grabbing a piece of toast and trying not to look like he wanted to crawl under the table.

Jace leaned back in his chair, the picture of smugness. “So, Claere, how much do you bet he’s got one of your panties stuffed in his pocket right now?”

Claere’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with horror. “Jacaerys!” she hissed, her face flooding with colour.

Cregan didn’t hesitate—he kicked the back of Jace’s chair hard enough to send him jerking forward, nearly face-planting into his meal.

“Fucking shithead,” Cregan muttered darkly as Luke and Joff dissolved into laughter. Even little Viserys giggled, his spoon clinking against his plate.

Jace coughed dramatically, thumping his chest while glaring back at Cregan. “What’s your problem? Just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“No one’s thinking that,” Cregan hissed at him.

Bad, bad idea to even think about lingering here. Not with Claere around. His fork clattered against his plate, his appetite long gone. The room felt too loud, too full of eyes and jokes he couldn’t handle this early. His face burned as Jace’s words replayed in his head. Every second he sat there felt like he was sinking deeper into quicksand.

“So, anyway. Thanks for breakfast, guys,” he said abruptly, pushing back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, earning glances from everyone. “I think I'm gonna take off.”

Luke snorted, not even looking up from his game. “You’re not serious. You barely ate anything.”

“C’mon, Jace was just joking around,” Joff added, but his tone was more amused than convincing.

Cregan shook his head, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “Nah, I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll call a cab and get out of here.”

But Jace, ever the insufferable matchmaker, leaned back in his chair, his smirk practically dripping with mischief. “Claere, why don’t you help my buddy out? Make sure he doesn’t end up puking into someone else’s flowerpot this time.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as Claere shot Jace a sharp glare.

“Jace, not funny anymore,” she hissed under her breath, but it was too late. The damage was done. Every eye was now on her, and before Cregan could even protest, she was already sliding out of her chair.

“I got it,” Cregan said quickly, his voice gruff and unconvincing. He didn’t. He really didn’t.

Claere didn’t so much as glance at him, brushing past with a waft of soft lavender. “It's alright. Come on,” she said simply, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Reluctantly, he followed her out of the dining room, the laughter and noise of breakfast fading behind them like a dull hum. The house suddenly felt too quiet, the sound of a clock ticking in the foyer sharp and relentless. Claere was a step ahead, her cherry-patterned pyjama pants swaying with her movements. Cregan caught himself staring, his eyes trailing over the soft curve of her back, that perky little butt, the effortless grace of her stride. She wasn’t even trying, and yet she managed to look... perfect. The kind of perfect that made his chest feel tight and his thoughts too loud.

She stopped by the counter, her phone already in hand as she pulled up the ride-share app.

“The driver should be here in a few minutes,” she said without looking at him, her voice calm and composed. Too composed, like she was purposely avoiding the tension that lingered between them. “Do you need—”

“I’m good,” he interrupted, too quickly, too harshly. His hands clenched into fists in his jacket pockets as the memories of last night came rushing back with a vengeance. The flowerpot. The puking. The singing. And worst of all—the half-drunken declaration outside her bedroom door.

His stomach churned. He didn’t know if he wanted to crawl into a hole or sprint out of the house and never look back.

Claere tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flickering over him like she could see through the walls he was trying to throw up. “Are you feeling better?” she asked softly, the words careful, like she wasn’t sure how much she should push.

Better? No. Not even close. He felt like a cataclysm in human form, his brain replaying every humiliating second of last night on a loop. And yet, here she was, standing there like a bare-faced angel that looked unfairly radiant, asking him if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, the words dry and unconvincing. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, avoiding her gaze. “Just need some air... and coffee... and maybe a new brain.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, soft and fleeting, but it was enough to make his chest squeeze uncomfortably. He didn’t deserve that smile. Not after last night.

“Let me get you some coffee for the road. There’s also this hangover cure thing Jace got delivered from Korea,” she said after a moment, already turning on her heel. “I'll just get—”

“No, no, wait.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and his hand shot out instinctively, wrapping around her wrist. The contact sent a jolt through him, her skin soft and warm beneath his fingers. She froze, turning back to look at him, her expression unreadable.

Realizing what he’d done, Cregan quickly let go, his hand falling to his side like it had been burned. “Sorry. Shit. Gods, I—I didn’t mean to...” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. But there was something in the way she looked at him—curious, almost cautious—that made his pulse quicken.

“I’m fine, thank you. But really,” he added hastily, the lie tumbling out of his mouth like a reflex. “I don’t need anything. I just...” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I just need to get going.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she stepped back, putting an almost imperceptible amount of distance between them. “Okay.”

A horn blared outside, shattering the fragile quiet between them.

“That’s your ride,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his chest tightening as he reached for the porch stairs. He hesitated for a beat, his eyes darting back to her. She stood there, framed by the morning light streaming through the windows, her hair slightly mussed, every bit calm but equally guarded. Even like this—bare, casual, impossibly real—she was breathtaking.

And he... he was just a guy who’d embarrassed himself beyond belief the night before. A guy who didn’t know how to say what he was feeling without screwing it up.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond, only nodded, her arms folding loosely across her chest as she watched him go.

Cregan stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the chill biting at his skin as the cab idled at the curb. He climbed in without looking back, the weight in his chest heavier than his duffel bag.

As the car pulled away, he couldn’t shake the image of her standing in that foyer, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek, her cherry-patterned pyjamas swaying softly. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the ache in his chest told him one thing: leaving didn’t feel like the solution he thought it would.

Claere thought Cregan Stark was hot. Really, really hot. Like break-my-heart-and-crush-it-under-your-foot-hot.

It wasn’t exactly a groundbreaking realization—half the student body seemed to agree, judging by the way his name floated through conversations like a shared inside joke. Country boy charm, someone had called it once, humble, down-to-earth in a way that felt rare around here. He had that easy grin, the kind that could smooth over tension in any room, a personality that seemed just... good—not performative, not forced. The fact that he also happened to be jaw-droppingly attractive? That was just an added bonus.

Not that Claere had noticed before. Not really. He wasn’t her type—or at least, she’d convinced herself of that. Too loud, too comfortable in the spotlight, too... not for her.

But then she caught him looking at her.

The first time, she hadn’t even been sure it happened. She’d glanced up from her textbook in the library, and there he was, leaning back in his chair, surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Jace had said. His eyes flicked to hers like a reflex, lingering for a beat too long before he snapped his gaze away until a faint pink dusted her ears.

It happened again in the dining hall. And again, in the quad. Again, in the parking bay. And every single time, he’d look away like it was some criminal offence, like being caught noticing her was some great humiliation.

And that... that made her start noticing him. More than she wanted to admit. What was so special about him anyway?

She wasn’t sure when she started paying closer attention to herself. It was gradual, little things she told herself were unrelated—applying a slightly darker shade of lipstick one morning instead of her usual tinted balm, smearing a little more kohl under her eyes, clasping a delicate anklet around her ankle before slipping on her sandals. She fussed over her clothes more, spending an extra minute smoothing the fabric or adjusting the neckline. Dresses became her uniform, just short enough, not glaringly noticeable, muted shades that stood out a little more. One morning, she braided her hair more intricately than she had in years, and the realization hit her mid-braid, leaving her staring at herself in the mirror, mortified.

What was she even doing?

So one morning, when the classroom door groaned as Claere eased it open, late enough to draw every pair of eyes in the room. She hurried inside, head slightly bowed, hoping to avoid attention. No such luck.

“Miss Velaryon,” the professor’s voice rang out, dripping with thinly veiled condescension. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “I trust you had a glamorous evening at the gala last night? So glamorous, it made you forget we have a punctuality policy?”

A faint ripple of laughter skittered through the room. Her stomach tightened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Sorry,” she said simply, before making her up the aisle.

The only empty seat was next to Cregan. Her chest gave a traitorous flutter as she slid into it. “Good morning,” she murmured, risking a small smile his way.

“Hey.” His reply was polite, but distant. His gaze didn’t shift from the notes his buddy had scribbled on the desk between them, and whatever they were talking about seemed infinitely more important than her existence.

Claere tucked her bag beneath the chair and tried to ignore the knot forming in her chest. It wasn’t a big deal, she told herself. He was probably just busy, focused on whatever inside joke his friend had thrown his way. She dragged her eyes to the professor, scribbling half-hearted notes, though none of the words sank in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cregan laughing quietly. The low, rumbling sound twisted something inside her. The same voice that had been warm and teasing with her just nights ago now felt impossibly far away.

When the lecture ended, she hesitated, giving him an opening—maybe he’d turn, say something, even just an offhanded “See you later.”

But he didn’t. Cregan slung his bag over his shoulder in one fluid motion, already halfway through some joke with his friend as they headed for the door. He didn’t glance back. Claere stayed seated, staring blankly at the desk in front of her, the noise of the room fading into a dull hum.

And yet, the next day in the hallway, when Cregan passed her with that silent, infinitesimal nod, her heart faltered anyway. Very absurd, she had to confess.

Her lips parted, the start of a breathy greeting on her tongue, but before she could speak, he was gone—off with his buddies, laughing about something she couldn’t hear. She was left standing there, her hands tightening around the strap of her bag, feeling like she’d missed some implicit opportunity.

The night Claere truly first made notice of Cregan Stark was chaos. Jace’s parties always were, but this one felt particularly loud, with more people spilling into every corner of the house than Claere remembered agreeing to. She’d mostly kept to herself, lingering in the less crowded spaces with her phone, occasionally letting someone drag her into polite conversation.

Then like an unmissable red dot in the distance: Cregan Stark, sprawled out like a giant overstuffed pillow, one arm slung dramatically over his face. His shirt was rumpled, his usually sharp features softened by a faint, dopey smile. Still, between his legs, he nursed a warm beer.

“He’s alive,” Jace muttered, nudging Cregan’s knee with his foot. “Hardly.”

Claere raised an eyebrow. “Hardly is right. He looks awful.”

Cregan’s head lolled to the side, his glassy eyes catching hers. For a moment, he seemed to come alive, his entire expression lighting up in drunken delight. “Claaaaaere,” he said as if her name were some profound revelation. “Queen of my heart. My queen.”

Jace groaned, hauling Cregan’s arm over his shoulder to get him upright. “C’mon, Stark. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Claere stepped forward to help, grabbing Cregan’s other arm. His weight was surprising, all lean muscle but heavy as a boulder. Together, they managed to shuffle him toward the door.

“You’re so strong,” Cregan mumbled, blinking blearily at Claere. His lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “Do you work out, baby girl? You have to, right? Like… how else do you carry the moon around on your ears every Wednesday?”

Claere blinked. “What?”

Jace snorted, clearly enjoying this far more than she was. “Ignore him. He’s hammered.”

But Cregan wasn’t done. He leaned closer, his breath warm and smelling of tequila. “No, really. Your earrings? The little diamond hoops on Wednesdays? Like the moon decided to accessorize.” He turned his attention to Jace, though his words were still clearly about her. “She’s—she’s like… I dunno, man, too fuckin' cute. Not fair. That you make me feel this way.”

Claere’s face burned. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be flattered or mortified. Maybe both.

“Let’s just get him to the car,” she muttered, tugging Cregan with more force than necessary.

It wasn’t exactly graceful. Nothing about him was. Between his stumbling feet and Jace’s half-hearted attempts to steer him straight, they barely managed to manoeuvre him out the front door. Cregan’s head lolled dramatically as he let out an exaggerated sigh, almost dragging both of them to the ground.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Claere grumbled, her arm straining under his weight.

“Not heavy,” Cregan murmured, his words slurring together. “Just... dense. Like a star. Heavy but, y’know... radiant. A suuuuperstar.”

Jace barked out a laugh. “You are absolutely fucking wasted, man.”

After what felt like an eternity, they finally got him into the backseat of Jace’s car. Claere leaned against the doorframe, catching her breath while Jace tossed his keys in the air and caught them with a smirk.

“So, uh, where does he live?” Jace asked.

Claere looked at him blankly. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I know? He’s your admirer.”

Claere’s lips parted, ready with a retort, but Cregan stirred in the backseat, mumbling something unintelligible. They exchanged a look.

“Fine,” Jace said, shaking his head as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “We’re taking him back to ours. He can sleep it off there. Mom's not home anyways.”

Claere sighed but didn’t argue, sliding into the passenger seat.

The drive was quiet at first, the hum of the tyres filling the space between them. Jace fiddled with the radio, skipping through stations until a pop song came on.

From the backseat, Cregan perked up like a sunflower in the sun. “I love this song,” he slurred, grinning from ear to ear.

Before either of them could stop him, he launched into a spirited—and wildly off-key—rendition of the chorus to George Michael's Faith.

Claere pressed her lips together, trying to stifle her laughter, but a giggle escaped. She couldn't help it. He was so cute.

“You’re enabling him,” Jace complained.

Claere shrugged, her voice soft as she tentatively joined in, humming along to the melody. Jace groaned but couldn’t help joining them, and soon the car was filled with their mismatched chorus.

Cregan, for all his drunkenness, sang with his whole heart, belting out the lyrics like he was performing to a sold-out stadium. Claere found herself laughing more than singing, stealing glances at him in the rearview mirror. His face was flushed, his hair a mess, but there was something oddly endearing about his drunken enthusiasm.

By the time they pulled into the Targaryen mansion’s long driveway, all three of them were breathless with laughter.

“Alright, big guy,” Jace said, killing the engine. “Time to haul your ass upstairs.”

Getting Cregan out of the car proved even more difficult than getting him in. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, but before Claere and Jace could grab him, he took off up the stairs, all but gracefully. This was the same person who shot goals from halfway across the rink.

“Where the hell is he going now?” Claere asked, watching in disbelief as Cregan bounded ahead like a man on a mission.

Jace sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Probably looking for a bed. Or a plant to retch in again. Who knows?”

They trailed after him, footsteps echoing through the quiet mansion as they rounded the hallway toward Claere’s wing. When they caught up, Cregan was standing outside her door, swaying slightly, his expression grave as though he’d uncovered a universal truth.

“She comes out of here all the time,” he whispered loudly to Jace, pointing at the door.

Claere stiffened.

“Wearing those teeny, tiny little shorts. My queen,” Cregan added, his voice tinged with awe.

Claere’s face went up in flames. “Excuse me?”

At that moment, Luke’s door creaked open, his blond head poking out groggily. “What’s going on?” he muttered, squinting at the scene.

“Drunk confession hour,” Jace said, grinning as he motioned to Cregan.

Cregan turned to Claere, blinking slowly, his words spilling out in a rush. “I don’t look! Not for too long! Just... y’know, accidentally. The finest butt I've ever seen.”

Luke’s mouth fell open. He glanced between Claere, who looked mortified, and Cregan, who was now teetering on his feet like a happy idiot. “This is amazing,” Luke said, fully stepping into the hallway to watch.

“Alright, Stark,” Jace said, shaking his head but unable to hide his amusement, “time for bed. Not her bed.”

But Cregan, apparently, had other ideas. Before anyone could stop him, he turned the doorknob, stumbled into Claere’s room, and declared triumphantly, “You mean our bed. It's ours. This one makes sense! The world makes sense! We make sense!”

Claere, thoroughly exasperated, followed after him just in time to see Cregan yank his shirt over his head and toss it carelessly onto the floor. He flopped onto her bed, sprawling out like a starfish.

“So soft,” he mumbled, burying his face into her pillow.

Luke leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Is he calling her his queen yet, or do I need to come back later for that?”

“He’s done for,” Jace said, slapping Claere on the shoulder with a laugh. “Good luck. Dude won't be up for hours. You can crash in Mom's room.”

She tried to grab his arm. “Jace, what—but he's—”

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sound of Jace and Luke’s retreating laughter, leaving Claere alone with Cregan sprawled out across her bed. She stared at him, her pulse pounding in her ears, trying to decide what on earth she was supposed to do with a half-naked, stunningly attractive, and very drunk boy fawning over her.

“Hi, Claere,” Cregan said again, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as he propped himself up on one elbow. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and he looked utterly shameless.

Claere swallowed hard. “You... you should really get some sleep,” she stammered, carefully stepping closer.

“But I don’t want to sleep,” he said, his voice soft and velvety, like he was sharing a secret. His blue eyes locked onto hers with startling intensity, even if they were glassy and unfocused. “You’re here. All alone. All pretty. Why would I want to miss a second of that?”

Her cheeks burned hotter, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or crawl under her bed to escape this moment entirely. She took a steadying breath, then reached out, brushing against his shoulder.

“God's sake,” she muttered, her voice tight with nerves. “Come on, sit up. You can’t just sprawl here like this.”

He let her guide him, his body warm and heavy under her hands. It was impossible not to notice his sheer solidness—broad shoulders, taut muscles that shifted under her touch like they belonged to someone who worked too hard to look like this without trying. Her fingers grazed the skin just above his waistband, and she yanked her hand back like she’d been burned.

“Do you just get to be like this?” she mumbled under her breath, more to herself than to him.

Cregan blinked up at her, eyes glassy but unmissably earnest. “Like what?” he asked, his voice rasping in a way that felt unfairly intimate.

“Like…” She waved a hand vaguely at him. “Like that. It’s—ugh. Never mind.”

His lips curved into a lopsided grin. “You think I’m stupid,” he said softly, his voice dropping into something deeper, almost tender. His gaze locked on hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. He pounded a fist near his heart. “But I think you’re my whole heart.”

Her hands froze, the blanket she’d been tucking around him falling slack. Her heart gave an odd, traitorous flip. She forced herself to shake it off, focusing on pulling the covers up instead of his words. “You’re drunk,” she reminded him, her tone sharper now as if saying it firmly enough would make her immune to his charm. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?” he countered, his voice soft and a little pleading, like he was trying to convince her—or maybe himself. “You think this is the alcohol talking, but it’s not. I’ve been wanting to say it for weeks. Months. You don’t even know.”

“Don’t even know what?” she asked, her voice quieter now, despite herself.

“How many times I’ve seen you walk into a room and just—just forgotten how to make sounds with my mouth,” he said, his words tumbling out with unfiltered honesty. “Do you know how hard that is for me? I never shut up. Never. But you—” He broke off, shaking his head like the thought overwhelmed him.

Her hands trembled as she busied herself smoothing the edge of the blanket. She didn’t trust herself to look at him directly. Her heart was pounding too hard, her face too warm. “Cregan, you’re not thinking clearly right now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan leaned back into the pillow, his gaze softening even further, somewhere between wonder and longing. “You’re it for me,” he whispered. “You’re so it for me. I love your face, your hands, and—” His eyes darted briefly downward, and he gave a sheepish, drunken grin. “And your butt. Your perky butt. And your eyes—did I say your eyes?—and your little anklets... gods, they're like music. I can hear you before I see you.”

Claere’s breath hitched, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh, scream, or hide behind the nearest piece of furniture. “You’re a mess,” she muttered, but the words lacked real heat.

He smiled, a warm, goofy smile that only made him look more handsome, more devastatingly sincere. “Maybe. But I’m your mess.” His eyelids drooped, and his voice softened to a murmur. “You’re magic, Claere. My queen.”

Her chest tightened, and for a long moment, she stood frozen, unsure what to do or feel. This shouldn’t mean anything. He was drunk, very drunk, and she had no reason to take his words seriously. And yet…

As his breathing evened out and his head sank deeper into the pillow, she released a shaky breath and rose to her feet. She turned off the light, the room plunging into a soft glow.

Standing in the doorway, she glanced back one last time. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable and unguarded, did something strange to her. She didn’t want to admit how much he had flustered her, how much she wished his words weren’t just the result of too much alcohol.

As she stepped into the hall and shut the door, her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with helping a drunk boy to bed. Cregan Stark was dangerous—for all his foolishness, charm, and ridiculous smiles. And somehow, she wasn’t sure she minded.

Late one afternoon, Claere tried to focus on her sketch, but the lines on her tablet refused to cooperate. She hated it, but this module required precision. The precision that her notebooks or freehand didn't offer. The university quad was noisy, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the grass, and her usual spot felt... exposed today. Her gaze kept straying, involuntarily drawn to the opposite side of the lawn.

Cregan was there, sitting on a low bench near the edge of the quad, leaning back with his arm draped lazily over the backrest. Except he wasn’t alone.

The girl next to him—brunette, chatty, and way too close—leaned in with a laugh that carried across the space between them. She lightly touched his arm, and Claere’s stomach knotted. Cregan wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he looked... relaxed, even entertained, his usual easy grin in place as he leaned forward to say something in return.

At first, Claere told herself it was just a glance. Just a quick flick of her eyes before returning to her tablet, like usual. It was virtually impossible.

Cregan had this thing about him. This tenor. A secret note in the musical language. His dark hair was mussed in that careless way that looked accidental but probably wasn’t. The sunlight caught the hints of chestnut in it, making it nearly glow. Or maybe it was just her head, adding pizzazz to her sight-seeing. His jawline—sharp enough to be unfair—was tilted slightly as he laughed at something the girl next to him had said. How was it possible for someone to just exist like that? Did he escape a runway recently?

The curve of his lips, the effortless, boyish smile—it made something flutter in her chest, unwelcome and persistent. His faded-black shirt clung to his shoulders, loose in some places, fitted in others, and when he shifted, she caught a glimpse of skin where the hem lifted. Just a hint of toned, weathered muscle, definitely Bow-Flexed, the kind that came from hours on the ice and in the gym. It felt immoral to examine this.

Her stomach churned as the girl next to him leaned closer, laughing again, her hand brushing his forearm. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed perfectly at ease, his head dipping toward her slightly as if he were sharing a secret.

Claere tightened her grip on her tablet, staring blankly at the unfinished lines on the screen. Her heart gave a stubborn, traitorous tug. So unfair that he got to make her feel this way.

He really was incredible. That much was obvious to everyone on campus. Cregan Stark wasn’t just good-looking—he was obnoxiously good-looking. The kind that fueled campus-wide crushes and gossip, made people giggle in hallways. The kind that felt unattainable. Claere hadn’t cared much before. She wasn’t the type to swoon or get caught up in the hype, not when she had her own life to manage. But now... now she wasn’t so convinced.

What was she even watching this for? She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

Except—hadn’t this been the same guy fawning over her four nights ago? The same guy who’d drunkenly spilt his feelings, gushed about her hair and her dress and her hands, who’d looked at her like she was the most stunning thing he’d ever seen, who’d asked her out? The way he’d stood there, shirtless and rambling, his words surging in a mess of nerves and sincerity. It had left her rattled, unsure of what to think.

Seeing him like this—comfortable, laughing, and effortlessly charming with someone else—stirred something sharp and unexpected in her chest. Jealousy? No, that couldn’t be it.

Her chest tightened, the ache catching her off guard. Well, it wasn’t like he’d promised anything. He hadn’t texted her. He’d just spilled his guts, like it had been an afterthought, something tacked onto the heat of the moment.

Claere sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to focus on her sketch again. The lines were still wrong, and the proportions were off. Her fingers tightened around the stylus.

Later that night, in the quiet of her room, Claere stared at her phone lying face-up on the blanket beside her. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t.

But that nagging, unanswered question had burrowed deep. She hadn’t seen Cregan like this before, and the frustration of not knowing where she stood with him was unbearable. This wasn’t about feelings, she told herself. It wasn’t about that pinch of jealousy she definitely didn’t feel. No, this was just... curiosity. Barely anything.

She pulled her knees to her chest, the soft hum of the air-conditioning the only sound in the room. Jace’s bedroom had been unnervingly easy to slip into earlier—and his room was a filthy mess, so Claere hadn’t lingered. She’d found what she was looking for and quickly came out with a number, scribbled hastily on a crumpled piece of paper, Cregan’s name scrawled beside it.

It was wrong. Horribly wrong. She could already hear the judgment in her own mind. But here she was, sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring at her phone’s message screen like it held all the answers to her conflicted thoughts.

It was probably for the best if he didn’t reply, anyway. A boy like Cregan Stark—golden, fortuitous, uncomplicated, and so clearly idolised—wasn’t meant for someone like her. Someone of the Targaryen family. It wasn’t self-pity; it was just the truth. He was too pleasant for that.

Her gaze shifted to the phone again. The soft glow of the screen seemed to taunt her. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. What would she even say?

Hey, it’s Claere. How’s it going? Too vague. So, about the other night... Too presuming. Do you like me? Because I think I like... Ugh, what was she, twelve?

Finally, she settled on something neutral; safe. Sweet. Unassuming.

Hi :) Hope this isn’t weird, but this is Claere.

She stared at the words until they blurred. Her thumb loomed over the send button, doubt creeping in with every second. This is stupid. Just delete it. Forget about him. He doesn’t matter.

Her thumb betrayed her. The message was sent.

The little "Delivered" notification appeared almost instantly, and her heart lurched painfully. For a long moment, she just sat there, frozen, staring at the screen like it might detonate in her palms.

She flipped the phone face-down on the blanket, burying her head in her knees and groaning. What had she done? Why did this matter? Why did he matter? The minutes dragged into more, filled with more overthinking. Her room was too quiet, the hum of, well, everything was too loud. She tried to distract herself, convincing herself she didn’t care if he replied.

Then her phone buzzed.

The library was quieter than usual for a Friday evening. Most students were at the bars, drowning the week in beer and bad decisions, but Cregan needed the stillness. Hockey practice had been brutal—his arms ached, his legs felt like dead weight—but it wasn’t the drills keeping him here tonight.

His books lay open on the table, untouched. A blank notebook page stared back at him like it knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift to the tall windows. Outside, the campus quad was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. Couples strolled along the paths, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass. Friends clustered on benches, sharing fries and stories from their week. It all looked so... easy. Effortless.

Not for him. It never had been.

The scholarship had been a lifeline—a ticket to a world he wasn’t sure he belonged in. And it wasn’t just about hockey. It was about proving he deserved to be here. That his place on the ice, in the classroom, in this life, was earned—not handed to him by a family name no one at this school even knew.

He hadn’t told anyone about the Stark Resorts empire or the decades of wealth and expectations tied to it. That part of his life stayed buried, just like the pressure to live up to it. To succeed without leaning on it. Because if anyone found out, everything he’d worked for—every goal he’d scored, every paper he’d aced—would be stained by doubt.

Which was why Claere Velaryon was a problem.

Her name alone carried significance. Notoriety. Fuckton of fame. Old money. Stupidly beautiful. Infuriatingly out of reach. She’d slipped into his thoughts when he wasn’t paying attention, her presence lingering in ways that felt almost physical. The way she adjusted the thin chain of her anklet when she crossed her legs during a lecture. The plum shade of her lipstick, perfectly smudged like she didn’t care. The thin, pale scar just above her elbow that caught the light when she gestured—small, faint, a mystery he wanted to solve.

He noticed everything about her. Too much. He hated himself for it. This one-sided crush shit was breaking him apart.

Cregan leaned forward, running a hand through his hair. God, he was pathetic. He wanted her so much. She was right there, right between his fingertips. And he was giving it up.

But it wasn’t just her looks. It was the way she tilted her head when she was listening, really listening, as if she were cataloguing every word. The way her laugh was quiet but rich, like she’d saved it just for you. The way she’d said his name once—just that once—but it had stuck in his head, echoing like a melody he couldn’t shake.

And he’d been stupid enough to think he had a chance.

A few nights ago, when he’d seen her at that party—looking like something out of a painting—he’d let the tequila and the nerves and whatever else was eating at him take over. He’d said too much. Blurted out things he wasn’t ready to say, things he wasn’t sure he even meant. He’d asked her out. Asked her like an idiot.

And now? Nothing.

No follow-up. No calls. Not even a passing glance in the quad. She probably thought he was a joke. Some cocky jock who got drunk and decided to shoot his shot. She wouldn’t be wrong.

Cregan sighed, rubbing his temples. He shouldn’t care. There were a million reasons to let it go. She was too much—too beautiful, too untouchable, too tied to the life he was running from. And the guys? They’d eat him alive if they knew. The whispers were already bad enough.

“Velaryon’s not his type, huh?”

“Stark’s all talk. Like she’d look at him twice.”

“Bet he’s just trying to cash in.”

“Can you blame him? That’s a golden ticket right there. He’s probably already planning his next career move.”

Their voices still rattled around his head, half-joking but sharp enough to cut. The butt of the joke. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know the first thing about him—or about her. The perception was everything. He knew that better than anyone. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way she’d stood in the lamplight that night, her smile soft but guarded. The way she’d looked at him—not like a rumour, or a player, or someone to laugh off—but like he was... real.

Maybe that’s what scared him most.

Because the more he let himself think about her, the harder it became to ignore the ache in his chest. The pull. The quiet, desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—she felt it too.

But hope wasn’t enough. Not here. Not for someone like him.

Cregan shut the notebook, pushing it aside. The books didn’t matter. None of it did. Not tonight.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted—but he knew exactly what he couldn’t have. And Claere Velaryon was at the top of that list.

Cregan barely registered Jace’s approach until he heard his voice.

“Hey.”

Startled, he glanced up to find Jace standing there, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his expression somewhere between amused and inquisitive. Without waiting for an invitation, Jace dropped into the chair across from him, swivelling it slightly as if testing its stability.

“You look like you’re about to solve world hunger—or self-destruct,” Jace quipped, propping his chin on his folded arms. “What’s going on, man?”

Cregan straightened, quickly masking the storm churning inside him. “Nothing. Just... studying.” He gestured vaguely at the closed notebook in front of him.

Jace snorted, unimpressed. “Yeah, right.”

Cregan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, fuck off.”

Jace gave him a long, exaggerated stare before shrugging. “Fine, keep your secrets. But you might want to let Claere know you’re alive. She’s been walking around like someone stole her favourite pair of shoes.”

Cregan froze, his chest tightening. “What?”

“You heard me.” Jace leaned closer, his tone turning more serious. “She’s been off. Distracted. And considering the way you’ve been dodging her lately, I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence.”

Cregan stiffened, his jaw tightening. “You're just a shit-stirrer, Jace.”

Jace tilted his head, giving him a look that screamed really? “Sure. And I’m not trying to get you two to stop acting like idiots.”

“I’m not—” Cregan started, but Jace cut him off with a raised hand.

“Relax, I’m not here to lecture you,” Jace said, his tone light but purposeful. “I’m just saying—if you’re into her, maybe stop overthinking everything and do something about it.”

Cregan blinked, caught off guard by how direct Jace was being. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

Jace sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “It’s not that complicated either, man. You like her, she likes you—yes, she does, don’t even try denying it—and the only thing standing in the way is you.”

Cregan looked away, his fingers gripping his pen tightly. He didn’t know how to explain it—the fear, the doubt, the nagging voice in his head that told him he wasn’t good enough for someone like Claere.

Jace leaned forward, his voice softening. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. Maybe you think you’ll mess it up, or maybe you’re overthinking what people will say. But here’s the thing—Claere doesn’t care about all that. And she deserves someone willing to take a chance on her.”

Cregan’s chest tightened, his pulse thudding in his ears.

“And honestly?” Jace added, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’d be an idiot to let her slip away. So, do yourself a favour—text her, call her, do something. Because trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Cregan hesitated, his thoughts warring with each other.

“C’mon,” Jace said, leaning back with a grin. “You’re Cregan fuckin' Stark. You can handle a puck flying at your face at ninety miles an hour, but you can’t handle texting one girl? Weak.”

Despite himself, Cregan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a pain in my ass, Velaryon.”

“It’s my greatest strength,” Jace said with a wink. He stood, clapping Cregan on the shoulder. “Seriously, though. Don't be a little bitch.”

The words hung in the air, the consequences ploughing against him with every step. He couldn’t help but wonder—was Jace right? Or was he just another fool caught in something he couldn’t handle?

Claere stared at her phone, pulse racing. She cared a lot. Should she check now? Would that make her seem too needy? Should she check later? Then, would it make her seem dismissive? Slowly, she flipped it over, trying to temper the ridiculous flutter in her chest, bracing herself for something dismissive—or worse, nothing at all. The screen lit up with a message from him.

Only weird if I start asking how you got my number. So - hi, Claere.

She couldn’t help it—the grin spread across her face before she could stop it. He was being cheeky. Her kind of cheeky. A laugh bubbled out of her as she fell back onto the bed, her phone clutched to her chest.

But just as quickly, her smile faded. Stop it. Why was she letting herself feel like this? Like he mattered. Like this mattered. She let her phone slip from her hands, flopping dramatically against the mattress.

“Nothing. Who cares? I don’t care,” she muttered to herself.

The phone buzzed again. Her eyes slid to her phone screen.

Unless you’re here to talk ice hockey. Then I’ll have to charge you a fee.

Claere snorted. Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Hard pass. You’re good, though. For a beginner.

Ouch. Right in the ego. Guess I’ll stick to what I know.

Clare chewed on a hangnail on her thumb, typing out a few responses, deleting the words and typing again. He sooner replied.

So... what're you up to right now?

The next buzz made her sit up, her stomach doing a little flip.

Because I was thinking, since I'm a shitty texter... wanna meet up?

Her eyes darted to the clock on her bedside table. Ten p.m. Late, but not too late. She bit her lip, the tug of a smile teasing her mouth. Her thumbs danced over the screen as she typed:

Bold of you to assume I’m not already in bed.

Bold of you to assume that is something I'm opposed to.

Her cheeks warmed as she bit back a laugh, typing a response.

Twenty minutes. Don’t make me regret this.

The three little dots appeared immediately.

I’ll be outside.

Claere tossed her phone aside, covering her face with her hands as she fought back the ridiculous giddiness rising in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this nervous—this alive. The feeling was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, bubbling up in a way she couldn’t quite contain.

With a deep breath, she adjusted the hem of her dress for what felt like the tenth time, smoothing it over her thighs as she stepped out toward the tall iron gates. The sprawling house loomed behind her, its gardens stretching into the quiet evening, their stillness a stark contrast to the whirlwind inside her. Her sandals scuffed lightly against the pavement as she shifted her weight, clutching her phone in both hands like it was an anchor.

Her reflection in the screen stared back at her. A loose, floral dress (not at all her style) that she’d thrown on at the last second, kohl under her eyes, lip tint, undone braids she’d hurried through, and her usual sandals. Presentable enough, she hoped. Not overdressed, not underdressed. Just right.

The low rumble of an engine seized her attention. A familiar truck rolled down the quiet street, its headlights softening the dim evening haze. Claere’s breath hitched as it slowed to a stop right in front of her.

This was ridiculous. What was she doing? She should go back. Her fingers tightened around her phone, and she briefly considered turning around, walking back through the gates, and pretending this never happened. Without anyone knowing—without Jace knowing—she was about to meet a boy.

The thought hit her hard. Jace would lose it. The image of his incredulous glare surfaced in her mind, his hypothetical voice dripping with mockery: “You’re dating my teammate?” Wait, was this a date? She bit the inside of her cheek. What even counted as one? Was it when he showed up outside your house? When he texted you or when you texted him? When he said he wanted to hang out? Or did it have to be something more official?

Her thoughts scattered as the truck’s passenger door clicked open.

Cregan leaned over from the driver’s seat, one arm reaching across to push the door wide for her. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice low, but there was eagerness in how his gaze lingered on her.

“Hi,” she mumbled.

She hesitated for half a second, smoothing the hem of her dress again, before stepping forward. With quite a bit of effort and grunting, her breath hitched as she climbed in.

He was… well, wow.

His hair was damp, darker at the ends where it stuck just slightly to his ears and temples like he’d rushed out of the shower. She caught a faint whiff of soap, something warm and earthy, and it shouldn’t have smelled as good as it did. Her chest tightened, completely against her will.

His shirt—a button-up that clearly hadn’t seen the business end of an iron—was only half-fastened, hanging loose enough to tease a glimpse of tanned skin and the sharp edges of his collarbone. Why did that look so good? Her eyes trailed down to his jersey shorts, and her brain helpfully supplied an unprompted, unnecessary observation: oh, those were made for sex. Strong, muscular, and relaxed in a way that made it clear he didn’t overthink a single thing about this.

And then there were his arms. For the love of all the gods, the arms. Broad, resting casually on the steering wheel like they had no business stealing anyone’s attention. The compression bandages on his left didn’t ruin the effect at all; in fact, they added to it somehow, like a reminder that this was the arm of someone who did things—vigorous, sporty things. When he shifted gears, his forearm tensed, the muscles flexing in a way that felt so unreasonably intentional she almost wanted to laugh at herself.

He’s literally just driving, she calmed herself, but her gaze had already flicked back up to his face. And, well, that didn’t help either.

Even in the dim light, he was stupidly, unfairly attractive. Sharp features that somehow didn’t look harsh, a jawline that belonged in one of those broody cologne ads, and an expression so at ease it bordered on maddening. How was it possible for someone to just exist like that? Did he escape a runway recently? Meanwhile, she was sitting there, clutching her phone like it was some kind of emotional lifeline, praying she didn’t trip over her own words. Was this normal? Did people just… look like this?

Her gaze darted away quickly before he could notice her staring, her cheeks burning as she focused very hard on her phone in her lap. Or tried to. What was she even doing here?

“All okay?” His voice broke through her thoughts, low and calm, but his brow furrowed slightly as he glanced her way, catching the tension she hadn’t realized was so obvious.

“Yeah, yeah. All okay,” she said quickly, too quickly, her voice a little higher than she’d meant. Heat rushed to her face as she tried to sound casual, but the slight curve of his lips told her she’d failed.

He followed her gaze as it dipped to his bandaged arm, and then he laughed—a short, self-conscious sound as he rolled his shoulder oh-so-sexily. “Hard drills today,” he said like it was nothing.

Her frown deepened. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

He shrugged, the movement making him wince despite himself. His free hand reached up to knead the edge of his shoulder, a small grimace flashing across his face before he smoothed it away. “‘S’all good,” he said, trying for nonchalance, but the stiffness in his movements told a different story.

“Cregan,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, but the concern laced through it made his eyes flick back to her.

His lips quirked up in a lopsided grin, almost sheepish. “I’m fine, really. Part of the package. Just need to stretch it out.”

She wasn’t convinced, not in the slightest, but what could she say? He didn’t seem the type to take being fussed over well. Instead, her gaze betrayed her again, dipping to the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, to the faint curl in his damp hair, to the easy confidence in every part of him.

Calm down. He’s just a guy. Ordinary dude. Pedestrian. A stupidly attractive guy who probably doesn’t even—no, stop. Just stop.

“Buckle up,” he said, his tone light, but his attention flicked meaningfully to her seatbelt.

“Oh, yes,” she mumbled, fumbling for the strap with clumsy fingers. The fabric caught awkwardly, and her nerves made her struggle to untangle it.

Cregan chuckled, a quiet sound that sent her already heightened awareness into overdrive. She glanced up sharply. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a grin that was far too amused for her liking. He turned back to the road, but the smile lingered, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Her heart hammered unsteadily, her thoughts a chaotic mess of self-reproach and stubborn fascination. She folded her hands in her lap once the seatbelt was secure, trying to force herself to focus on anything else.

And yet, one thought pressed at her relentlessly, no matter how much she tried to shove it aside.

What am I doing here?

He was too much. Too effortless, too magnetic, too… perfect. The kind of guy who should’ve been with someone who matched him, someone equally flawless. Not Claere, with her name already a whispered scandal and a lingering sense of not quite belonging.

But when he glanced at her again, offering her that easy, lopsided grin, she couldn’t help but feel it—quiet and dangerous, like stepping off the edge of something she couldn’t yet see. She swallowed hard, trying to push the ridiculous thoughts down, but it didn’t help much. This was already overwhelming. And he wasn’t even trying.

He began to ask her, “Have you had dinner? There's this great new place that—”

“I can’t step out without my parents knowing.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharper than she intended. She turned toward him, a little embarrassed, but the confusion on his face made her heart pinch. “I'm sorry,” she added quickly. “It’s just… if I go anywhere, someone’s bound to see. I don't have security on me. It’ll be all over the papers by morning. And probably you will be, too.”

He blinked at her, clearly trying to process this. “The papers?”

She nodded, her cheeks heating. “My mom’s very particular. If they find out…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together. “It’ll be really, really bad. Sorry.”

His brow furrowed, but there wasn’t any judgment in his expression—just quiet understanding. “Oh. No worries.”

For a moment, the air between them felt too quiet, too heavy.

“Are you hungry?” she asked softly, breaking the silence, and trying to redirect the conversation.

“Well, I—”

“You know what,” she interrupted, rubbing her eyes as frustration bubbled to the surface, “maybe you should just drop me back home. This was a bad idea.”

Cregan shifted in his seat, his gaze steady on her. “Hey-ey. It’s alright,” he said gently. “We can figure something out. Non-public.”

She hesitated, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. It wasn’t pity or dismissal—it was just calm, easy reassurance. She exhaled, both relief and guilt tugging at her chest.

The truck began to move, but instead of turning back toward her house, he pulled into the parking lot of a small convenience store. Claere frowned, watching him climb out without another word. What was he doing?

“Be right back,” he called before breaking out into a jog.

Claere sat stiffly in her seat, her hands clasped over her phone, staring straight ahead at the glowing sign of the convenience store. She tried to focus on her breathing and tried not to think too much about the sheer absurdity of what she was doing. Meeting a boy. Spontaneously. Alone. Without anyone knowing. Daemon would be livid if he found out. Her mother, less so. She would make a lecture out of it. Be protective. Screw over Cregan's whole life. Yet here she was.

The sound of the driver’s door opening made her jump. She glanced over as Cregan slid into his seat, dropping a crinkling plastic bag onto the centre armrest. He didn’t say anything at first, just started pulling things out, unpacking it all.

A bag of chips. A pack of candy bars. Two bottles of iced tea. Two small containers of sliced fruit. An inexplicable, single can of olives.

“What… is all this?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

He leaned back, flashing her a leisurely grin that made her chest do a weird little flip. “Dinner,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He popped open the bag of chips and nudged it toward her. “Go on. You like sour cream and onion, right?”

She blinked at him. “You didn’t even ask.”

“Didn’t need to.” He winked. “Everyone likes sour cream and onion.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, and she shook her head, taking a chip despite herself. She wanted to call it silly or absurd, but really she loved that he'd put in effort to make her stay.

“Hey, you said no going out,” he replied, leaning an elbow on the centre console as he opened the container of fruit. “So, I improvised.” He plucked a grape from the mix and popped it into his mouth, shrugging as if this was a completely normal way to spend a night.

“Look, we stay in the car. Nobody sees anything. It’s not a five-star meal, but it works. And,” he added, picking up the can of olives with a wink, “it’s classy. See? Gourmet.”

She couldn’t hold back the laugh this time, a quiet sound that surprised even her. “Really? Do you even eat olives?”

“Not really,” he admitted, shaking the can. “But you never know. Felt like the right move.”

“Did it?”

“Absolutely.” He tossed the can onto the armrest like it sealed the deal, then leaned back, relaxed and entirely at ease in his seat. “I mean, they’re expensive. Ten bucks a bottle. Fancy schmancy. Impressive?”

Claere snorted, shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the least impressive thing you’ve done tonight.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest, feigning injury. “Here I am, going out of my way to craft the perfect car date, and you’re out here throwing shade.”

Date. The word landed between them, soft but deliberate, making her stomach flip. Was that what this was? A date? She couldn’t tell if he’d meant to say it or if it just slipped out, but the way he casually tossed it in made her pulse quicken. Claere glanced out the window, needing a moment to collect herself. Her hands rested on her lap, fidgeting with the corner of a napkin. He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t pushing for anything beyond this odd, makeshift moment. It felt easy—easier than she’d expected.

She glanced back at him. He leaned comfortably against the driver’s seat, the soft light highlighted the curve of his jaw and the faint smile playing on his lips—like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. It struck her again how different he was now from the nervous, slightly reckless guy she’d been introduced to weeks ago. That version of him had been a little too cocky and chaotic, and a little too rough around the edges to fit their carefully curated image of what her life should look like. But this—this version of him was steady, charming.

He cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly in the seat. “Look, before I say anything else—I owe you an apology.”

Claere blinked, caught off guard by his sceptical tone. She stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I know I’ve been… distant.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering between hers and the floor. “I didn’t mean to avoid you. I just—” He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I was really ashamed. About what I did that night. About everything.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and something gentler. “Why embarrassed?”

Cregan let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. “To state the obvious. Because I was drunk off my ass, made a fool of myself, and dragged you into it. God, the flowerpot… the singing…” He groaned, burying his face briefly in his hands. “And then crashing in your bed like some—”

“It's okay,” she interrupted, her voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “You didn’t do anything wrong. People get drunk and, do and say unfortunate things.”

He looked at her then, a little more vulnerable now. “Still. I didn’t handle things right after. I shouldn’t have just—avoided you. That was a dick move.”

Claere’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when he finally approached her, but this wasn’t it.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” He met her gaze fully now, his voice quieter, more sincere. “I’m sorry, Claere. For being an ass. For avoiding you. And for making things weird when you were just—” He paused, swallowing. “When you were just being nice to me.”

Her chest ached at the honesty in his words. She wasn’t used to this—people owning up to their mistakes, much less in such a raw, unpolished way.

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” she said after a beat, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “But… thank you for saying it.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face, though his hands still fidgeted with a candy bar wrapper. “I don’t exactly remember what I said at that party,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “I hope I didn’t cross a line or—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice soft but sure. “No, you were actually very sweet. And observant.”

“Observant,” he repeated slowly, raising a brow as if he didn’t trust where this was going.

“You pointed out my weird pattern for how I wear my clothes. Like how I like brown or wear my twisted braids on Wednesdays.”

His face fell, and he groaned, shutting his eyes in clear mortification. “God, I did say that, didn’t I? I am so sorry. So creepy of me.”

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Nothing to be sorry about. I thought it was cute. And... kind of impressive.”

He opened one eye, peeking at her like a cautious kid checking if the coast was clear. “Really? That was all it took to impress you? Not my rugged handsomeness or the fact that I bought you a bottle of olives?”

She laughed with a shrug. “People don’t notice that little things.”

His lips twitched into a small, sheepish smile, but he didn’t say anything. The silence between them was comfortable, humming with something unsaid but not unwelcome.

Claere glanced at him again, studying his profile—the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. He wasn’t trying to break the quiet or fill it with meaningless chatter. He wasn’t pressuring her to leave the car or convincing her to let her guard down for his sake. He was just... here. With her.

“I just...” She hesitated, then pushed on. “Uh, this is nice. Most guys would’ve tried to force me out of the car by now. Insist we go somewhere just because, you know, it’d look better or something.”

At that, his posture shifted ever so slightly, and his head tilted toward her, his tone dipping into a playful drawl. “Most guys?” he asked, his voice tinged with obvious jealousy. “How many guys are we talking about here?”

She shook her head, laughing softly. “A few. And most of them were purely for business relations. My parents’ idea, not mine. Not exactly fun.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes softened. “Yeah, sounds like a blast,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It wasn’t,” she said simply, leaning her head back against the seat. Her gaze flicked to him again, and her smile softened. “But this? It’s the most audacious I’ve been in a while.”

His grin returned, slow and wide, as he reached for another chip from the bag between them. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her lips curving up softly. “I like this. I really do.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering in a way that made her feel exposed but not uncomfortable. It wasn’t like the way most people looked at her—curious, judgmental, or critical. And maybe that’s why what he said next hit her like a freight train.

“I'm not going to play for time. I'll say it: I’ve liked you for a while now,” he admitted, his voice quieter, tinged with a vulnerability she wasn’t expecting.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, all she could do was blink at him. “Oh,” she said, barely managing the single syllable. It sounded stupid, but her brain felt like it had short-circuited.

He gave a small laugh, but it wasn’t mocking. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel too. Everyday.”

“What... what do you mean by a while?” she asked, her voice steadier now, though her heart was still pounding.

Cregan hesitated, running a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping to the steering wheel like he needed something to ground himself. “Since the start of the year? Before that, maybe?” He looked back at her with a half-smile. “It’s a blur. But then you texted me, and... I’ll be honest, I almost crashed my car.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“I mean it,” he said, laughing now. “I was pulling out of practice, checked my phone—stupid, I know—and your name, just sitting on my screen. I swerved so hard, that I almost got rear-ended. The guy behind me rolled down his window and called me a fuckface.”

Claere burst out laughing, the image too ridiculous not to. She could picture it perfectly: Cregan, bold and unbothered on the ice, suddenly reduced to a flustered mess at the sight of her name.

“I’m serious,” he said, laughing along with her. “I had to pull over. I don’t even know why. It was just a text. But you...” He trailed off, his grin fading slightly as his voice softened. “You get to me, Claere. You did. You do.”

Her laughter faded, leaving the quiet between them thick and charged. Something in her chest tightened—a subtle ache she hadn’t expected. His words were so simple, so direct, yet they carried a weight she wasn’t used to.

No one ever spoke to her like this. Not the tabloids, who reduced her to a headline, not her family, who crafted her image like she was part of their empire, and certainly not boys. Boys always wanted something from her—a photo, a name to drop, a chance to prove they could handle someone like her. But Cregan…he just sat there, watching her like she was someone worth looking at. Really looking at.

She didn’t know what to say. Her lips parted, then closed again as her thoughts tangled. Words felt too clumsy for what was twisting inside her. Instead, she just looked at him, her fingers twisting the edge of her sweater as if anchoring herself to the moment.

“I like you, Claere,” he said, and his voice cut through her overthinking like a steady hand on her shoulder. There was no teasing lilt, no hesitation, just earnestness that caught her completely off guard. “And I’d love to get to know you. Really get to know you. Spend time with you. No people, no gossip. Just you.”

Something shifted inside her, like a thread she hadn’t noticed was pulled taut had finally gone slack. Her chest ached with something warm and unfamiliar. Maybe it was relief, or maybe it was fear—fear of how much she wanted to believe him. To trust that he meant it.

Without thinking, without planning, she leaned forward. It wasn’t calculated or bold; it was instinct, a soft, quiet urge she couldn’t ignore. Her lips brushed against his cheek, feather-light, and she lingered for just a moment before pulling back.

When she did, her breath caught. She expected him to be startled, maybe even confused. She braced herself for an awkward laugh or some offhand joke to ease the tension. But instead, he was grinning. Slow and lazy, like she’d just confirmed something he’d already known for a long time.

“Gods-fucking-damnit, thought I'd be a gentleman tonight,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, roughened at the edges in a way that made her stomach flip.

She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came. Her thoughts were spinning too fast, caught between the way he was looking at her and the way her heart felt like it was about to hammer out of her chest.

And then he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t some dramatic movie moment. It was careful and conscious like he was giving her all the time in the world to stop him, even though she never would have. When his lips met hers, it was soft at first, like a question he didn’t want to push too hard.

But the second her hand moved—gripping the front of his shirt like she needed something to hold on to—it deepened. His other hand came up, cradling her cheek, stroking down the length of her throat, tongue spearing between her lips, in a way that sent a shiver through her. The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was a little messy, a little uncoordinated, too heated, silly, and breathy, but it was warm and real, and her chest felt like it might burst with the intensity of it all.

Her senses were on overdrive. The faint scent of his soap, the slight scratch of his stubble against her skin, the quiet hitch of his breath when her hand slid up to his shoulder—all of it sank into her like she was trying to memorize every second of this.

When he finally pulled back, her eyes fluttered open, her cheeks flushed and lips tingling. His forehead rested against hers, his breath fanning across her skin as they both tried to catch up with themselves. His hands found a home against her waist, rubbing and squeezing, feeling the lunes of her spine and hips.

“Was that okay?” he asked, his voice so soft it almost broke something inside her.

She nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Better than okay. Really nice.”

His quiet laugh warmed the space between them. “Good,” he said, his thumb still tracing gentle, absent-minded circles on her waist.

She couldn’t look away from him. The way his stormy grey eyes searched hers, like he was trying to memorize every flicker of emotion on her face. Like he was waiting for her to pull away, to tell him this was a mistake. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

His hand, warm and steady, lingered against her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin in a touch so tender it made her heart ache. And in that moment, with the soft hum of the engine filling the space around them, she felt something she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

Safe. Seen. Wanted.

“Can we keep this to ourselves for a bit?” he asked softly, his voice laced with hesitation, as though he wasn’t sure how the words would land.

Her brows knit together slightly, her head tilting just enough to catch his gaze. “Why’s that?” she asked, not accusing, just curious. Her voice was soft, a gentle thread pulling the question closer between them.

He let out a breath, his hand falling from her cheek to rest against the console between them. It left a hollow ache where his touch had been, but she didn’t move. “It’s not that I don’t want people to know,” he started, his tone quiet but steady, each word weighed with meaning. “Trust me, I want everyone to know.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, earnest and steady. “I just… I don’t want anyone ruining this. Not yet. Not before we even figure out what this is.”

She blinked, his words wrapping around her like a fragile cocoon. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression—a barely-there crack in the armor he wore so well—hit her with the force of something unspoken but deeply felt. He wasn’t ashamed of her. He wasn’t hiding her. This wasn’t about fear or hesitation.

He was protecting this. Protecting them.

From the noise. From the outside world that had taken her life and painted it in hues that weren’t hers to begin with.

“That makes sense,” she said softly, her voice gentler than she meant it to be. But it felt right. It felt true.

“Yeah?” he asked, his gaze lifting to meet hers again, as if searching for the faintest shadow of doubt.

She smiled faintly, the curve of her lips soft and sure. “I think… we could use the quiet for a while.”

The relief that spread across his face was almost tangible. His shoulders eased, the edges of his features softening as if a weight he’d carried for too long had finally slipped away. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice so full of sincerity it nearly undid her.

She leaned back in her seat, her body slowly releasing the tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding. The silence between them felt warm, companionable, like an unspoken promise.

“You know,” she said, tilting her head slightly to look at him again, her tone lighter now, “for someone who’s usually so daring, you’re really nervous about this.”

He glanced at her, his lips curving into a crooked, self-deprecating smile. His fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel. “You’re the one who does that to me,” he admitted, his voice low, steady, and entirely too vulnerable. “I’m not used to it.”

Her laugh came without warning, bubbling up light and genuine, and it caught him so off guard that his smile widened, bright and boyish.

“That’s nice,” she teased, nudging his arm with hers. “Maybe that means you’ll behave.”

His brows lifted, his grin turning mischievous. “Behave?” He looked at her like the word itself was an insult. “Is that what you want? A well-behaved guy?”

She tilted her head as if in deep thought, though the playful glint in her eyes betrayed her. “Hmm,” she hummed, drawing it out, “I don’t know. Depends on the day, I guess. Some days I might prefer a misbehaving one.”

His laughter filled the space between them, rich and warm, a sound that made her feel like the entire world had shrunk down to just this car, just this moment. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

Her lips twitched, her smile turning coy as she leaned back. “Oh, I’ve been told.”

[and there you have it - sort of... I've planned another part, possibly the last one, so stay tuned!]

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